


Terms of Surrender

by The_Kinky_Pet



Series: Surrender [3]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, D/s, M/M, Romance, Safe Sane and Consensual, prompt: loving dom
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-25 01:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 51,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Kinky_Pet/pseuds/The_Kinky_Pet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh God. Tony,  <em>please </em>. . .” Steve panted, struggling to stay still. </p><p>“Tell me what you want.”</p><p>Steve’s words came out in harsh gasps:  “Anything.  Everything .  <em>You</em>.”  Steve shivered.  “Claim me, mark me, make me yours . . .”</p><p>OR</p><p>Tony and Steve work out the kinks in their relationship and explore uncharted territory.</p><p>Author's Note:  I love this series.  I don't want to abandon it, but it is on long-term hiatus while I deal with Life and write P&P.  I have learned that I can't work a demanding full time job, write multiple long stories at the same time, and maintain my sanity.  Sorry to leave you hanging, but I'm afraid this one has to wait and I really don't know when I'll be able to come back to it. Kudos and kind words are very appreciated and encouraging, but if the lack of closure will drive you crazy, you might want to skip this one for a while . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story picks up where “Surrender” left off and may not make much sense without parts 1 and 2 in the series. There is also a pre-slash out-take, "In the Bleak Mid-Winter," set two years earlier which you might enjoy if you’re following this series. Thank you all for your patience! I hope the new year is off to a good start for everyone. Thank you for joining me for Part 3 of Surrender. 
> 
> This story is dedicated with much love and gratitude to thatwhichyields, who gave me the title for this story. Thank you for your unflagging enthusiasm and support. You are an inspiration. All remaining errors and miscalculations are my own.
> 
> WARNING: vague spoilers for "Some Like It Hot." :-)

_October 22, 2012_

Steve was running too fast—he knew that, knew people were starting to stare. He really shouldn’t let himself run like this in public, but it was hard to slow down, hard to hold back. He felt like he was flying and each pounding footfall was crying out “He loves me! He loves me! He loves me!” Steve was grinning like a loon and didn’t care in the least. It was a beautiful, crisp autumn day in Central Park and everything was perfect, beautiful, amazing. 

Earlier, Tony had eaten a heaping plate of pancakes, bacon, and eggs, which he’d praised to the sky making Steve want to preen and puff out his chest. Steve had even kissed Tony in the kitchen—twice! And, okay fine, nobody had actually been present to see it, but still. Tony had seemed almost hesitant when he mentioned having some projects in his workshop, but Steve had shooed him down to work and play. (See? Not trying to change you!) Then Steve had left for his run. 

It was a glorious day. 

***

Tony hadn’t been lying when he’d said he had some stuff to work on—he _always_ had stuff to work on. Most importantly, there was his suit and all the upgrades and maintenance for the Avenger’s gear. There were the few contracts he’d still take from the government—emergency evacuation vehicles and things like that. And then R &D at Stark Industries could use always his help, even outside a crisis. 

He really wasn’t hiding. 

Tony downed three bottles of ice cold water from the mini-fridge and took a seat at his workbench, petting Dummy absently. Hiding was a nasty word for what he was doing. He was processing. It was important. And, like so many things, he did it best in his workshop. Alone. 

“Hey, JARVIS, bring up Project Triple X for me, would ya?” 

“Certainly, sir.” 

A moment later Tony was encircled by huge projections: Steve’s spreadsheet, various annotated ebooks, shopping carts at JT’s Storeroom and Mr. S Leather, and of course his own notes. He yawned. 

Tony stayed up all night working on projects often enough, but a night of hateful inactivity, staring at Steve and thinking that— Tony cut off that line of thought. (Yeah. See? Feelings—exhausting!) Even after Steve’s reassurances that the scene hadn’t gone terribly wrong, that the crying had been a good thing in fact, Tony couldn’t sleep. There was too much to think about. So, he wasn’t hiding in the workshop; he was processing. 

Tony rubbed at his eyes. All nighters were also a little harder to manage after a five day marathon. (Fucking Stark phones . . .) Tony dragged himself over to the coffeemaker, the one he’d raided from the common kitchen almost two years ago. It sounded a little like Darth Vader while brewing, but he’d gotten sentimental about the damn thing and still hadn’t replaced it. Dummy chirped at his side while Tony waited impatiently for his caffeine then eagerly burned his tongue. (Worth it.) 

Well-fortified, it was now time to plan. 

But first, Tony reviewed the facts (yet again. . .): Steve had difficulty with public displays of affection; he had done little or no research on BDSM beyond what was necessary for the spreadsheet; he had not experienced PTSD or encountered any sort of trigger during their session; he’d definitely reached subspace, though he didn’t seem to know what that was; he found verbalizing difficult in scene and perhaps impossible while under; he had probably been overwhelmed by the number of new elements Tony had introduced; he had definitely been overwhelmed by the emotions the scene brought out. (And he loves me…)

Well. It was a start. 

Tony sighed. 

Now, how to move forward? And what the fuck was he going to say to Steve? Because they really couldn’t continue like this.

***

“Tony?”

Tony jerked awake suddenly, Steve’s hand on his shoulder. Tony blinked and looked up. 

“Muh…?” Tony rubbed his eyes. (Awesome. Drooled on my arm. Hot. Really sexy that.) 

“Hey, Steve.” 

“Hey yourself,” Steve said with a smile, leaning down to kiss Tony on the forehead. He glanced around at the glowing screens. 

“So, uh. More research, huh?” Steve said with the beginnings of a blush. Tony stared. (Oh fuck, I love that. I want to fuck you over and over and cover you in my come then see if you’ll still blush so easily.) 

“Looks . . . interesting.” Steve glanced over at Tony’s copy of their spreadsheet. “This what you’ve been working on?”

And why did Tony suddenly feel like he’d been lying that morning?

“Yeah,” Tony said, rubbing his neck. “I mean, I was doing some work on the Mark VII for a while, but then I was thinking about last night and well . . . ” Tony trailed off and gave a little shrug. 

“Tony, I’m honored,” Steve said softly. He crouched down to bring himself level with Tony and reached out to touch his cheek. “You’re too good to me.” 

(Shit. Steve, we really need to talk. Oh fuck, I—)

Then, Steve stood up with a smile and said briskly, “Now then. It’s 7:30, I made chili, and everybody’s ready for dinner. Clint’s was complaining how many movie nights we’ve rescheduled and has convinced Thor we should watch _Terminator 3_.” Steve shook his head. “Though how anyone in our line of work can get that excited about movie explosions is beyond me. Bruce and Natasha are voting against them for _Some Like It Hot_. I’m not too particular, so, you wanna come eat and cast the deciding vote?”

(7:30? How the hell did it get so late? I can’t have nodded off for more than twenty minutes or so…)

“Er, unless you’re too busy,” Steve backpedaled. “I can just bring something down to you if you’re—”

Tony shook his head. “No, it’s fine. I’m at a stopping place. JARVIS, save my work.”

“Of course, sir.” 

Tony started to follow Steve to the elevator then, on second thought, turned back to down the last of his cold coffee like a shot before leaving. 

(Okay. After the movie. We’ll talk then.)

“Be good while Daddy’s out!” Tony called to the bots, then stepped into the elevator. Steve reached out to pull him close and Tony barely stifled a little noise of surprise. 

“I’ve been thinking about you all day,” Steve murmured into Tony’s hair. “I was going to do some more of the reading Fury sent over, but I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think about was you.” He chuckled, nuzzling at Tony’s neck. “Worked myself up pretty bad at the gym.” 

Steve paused then added a little hesitantly, “I started something new in the studio.” 

Tony held Steve tight. “Will I get to see it?” he asked. 

“Mmm. Maybe,” Steve said with a mysterious little smile. “Maybe when it’s done.” 

As the elevator doors opened, Steve let his arms fall and pulled away. 

“There he is,” Clint said with a nod at Tony. (Mmmm. Chili smells amazing. Oh yeah, never had lunch…) 

“Man, we were starting to think you’d been kidnapped,” Clint said. Tony rolled his eyes. Clint continued with a sly look, “Or that maybe Steve went over to the dark side and was keeping you chained up somewhere as his sex slave.”

Steve’s eyes went wide, then he looked down and mumbled, “Don’t be ridiculous, Clint,” while Tony just rolled his eyes again and said, “I’ve been in the lab. Bla bla Stark Industries bla bla.”  
  
“Mmm-hmm,” Clint murmured and raised an eyebrow. Tony narrowed his eyes, noticing the way that Steve fumbled to start serving chili, turning his back on the team so they couldn’t see his expression or, more likely, his blush. (Damn. Might need to lay some ground rules. Like no teasing Steve about sex. Or gay stuff.)

“Oh, and I’m voting for _Some Like It Hot_ ,” Tony added. (Take that!)

“What!?” Clint cried. “Tony, you’re killing me. Is Cap rubbing off on you?” Clint asked, then added, deadpan, “And by rubbing off, I mean—” Clint cut himself off with a sharp breath. Tony grinned inwardly when he saw Clint surreptitiously reach down to rub his shin. (And thank you, Natasha.) “Since when do you want to watch old stuff?”

Tony glared. “First of all, it’s not just any ‘old stuff.’ It’s got Marilyn Monroe, Jack Lemmon, and Tony Curtis. Enough said. But second of all, we showed Steve _Terminator 2_ and I won’t have the shitty third movie sullying the memory of T-2’s epic awesomeness.” 

(Also, I know Steve would rather watch _Some Like It Hot_ but hates casting the deciding vote on movie night. So there.) 

“Fine,” Clint said, then turned to Thor. “Sorry, buddy.”

“It is no problem,” Thor said seriously. “We shall watch this third Terminator movie some other time. I am happy to see the comic film Bruce has suggested for us.” 

Steve placed two heaping bowls of chili on the table. Clint and Thor immediately snapped them up and headed for the couch. 

Steve sighed. “You know sometimes, it would be really nice to eat at the table,” he said, handing a bowl to Natasha. Steve looked at Bruce, who held his hands up in surrender and murmured, “I’m staying out of this. Again.” 

“We eat breakfast at the table, lunch at the table, and dinner on non-movie nights at the table,” Clint pointed out. “I think we can have couch-dinner this time.” He turned to Natasha, “Hey, Natasha—beer me!” 

She glared. “ ‘Beer’ is not a verb, Clint,” she said, but grabbed two from the fridge all the same. 

Steve waved his hands at the chili. “But it isn’t even take-out!” Steve protested. 

Tony watched the team with a steady sense of warmth. Sometimes it still startled him-- that they’d eventually found a way to fit together like this.

***

_January 6, 2010_

_Tony paused in the doorway at the sound of Steve’s voice, then peeked around the corner, unsure if he wanted to brave a kitchen full of people._

_“So, uh, while you were gone, Tony introduced me to Star Wars,” Steve said to Barton and Romanov. “It was pretty swell. So, I was wondering, uh—what are your favorite movies?”_

_The two agents eyed him impassively for several long moments._

_“Doctor Zhivago,” Natasha said, a hint of challenge in her tone, as if daring him to object._

_Barton crossed his arms. “The Godfather.”_

_“Bullshit,” Romanov said. “It’s Robin Hood.”_

_“She’s lying,” Barton told Steve, then glanced over at Romanov. “Fuck off.”_

_“Make me.”_

_“So, um,” Steve cut in, obviously floundering, “maybe we could watch those together sometime? And order Chinese food? Maybe tonight? At 7?”_

_There was a long pause before Romanov answered, “Sure thing, Cap. We’ll be here.” Barton just nodded and the agents left together, headed towards the south elevator._

_. . ._

_That evening when Tony came up-- just for coffee because the tin downstairs was empty, not because he was curious or wanted Chinese food or wanted to watch The Godfather again or anything like that-- Tony found Barton, Romanov, and Steve sitting at the dining room table in silence eating off fine china. Steve had even put the Chinese food into nice serving dishes he’d found God only knew where. Probably something Pepper had— (No. Stop there. Not now . . .)_

_“Where, um, did you learn to use chopsticks?” Steve asked. It sounded like he was auditioning for the role of “terminally awkward guy.”_

_Romanov just looked at him, unblinking._

_(Time to save the Captain from his own good intentions. Enter Tony Stark stage left.)_

_“Cap!” Tony exclaimed with a grin. “What’s this? Chinese take-out at the dining room table? Absurd! A crime against tradition!” Tony waved his hands emphatically. “You’re supposed to eat take-out in front of the TV! Haven’t I taught you anything about the modern age? Come on—what are we watching? Move it, move it! To the couch!”_

_“Uh, well, if you’re sure that’s how it’s done . . .”_

_“Absolutely!”_

_Barton and Romanov looked relieved. At least Tony thought so. (Hard to tell with those two.)_

_“Hey, there enough for me?” Tony asked, grabbing a packet of chopsticks and one of the big serving bowls full of chow main._

_Steve smiled gratefully at him. “Of course.”_

***

“Tony?” Steve said, laying a hand on his lover’s shoulder and holding out a bowl of chili. (You’ve been staring. Still tired? Huh. Maybe I shouldn’t have woken you up.) “You ready?”

Tony smiled up at him and nodded. “Yep! Lead on, MacDuff!”

Steve hesitated. “I’m pretty sure it’s ‘lay on, MacDuff,’ actually.” Steve paused and shook his head. “And for somebody who doesn’t care about poetry, you drop an awful lot of Shakespeare lines.” 

Tony gave him a blank look. “That’s Shakespeare?”

Steve’s jaw dropped. “Tony! That’s . . . that’s _Macbeth!_ Of course it’s—” Tony’s mouth was twitching up at the corners. “Oh. I see. Ha ha.” Steve rolled his eyes and gave Tony a little punch. 

“Puh-lease,” Tony said, taking his chili. “I went to boarding school. They pumped culture into my veins.” Steve wrinkled his nose at him. “I can probably still recite—”

“Guys! Hurry up!” Clint called. Steve and Tony joined the others in their usual seats on the vast, wide, v-shaped couch. Natasha, Clint, and Thor on one wing, then Bruce, Tony, Steve on the next. 

“JARVIS? If you would,” Bruce asked. (Bruce never looked at the ceiling.)

The film began. Steve devoured his chili absently. (There is something kinda nice about seeing old cars in black and white.) Glancing over, Steve found Tony’d also inhaled his food before the police could even finish raiding the speakeasy. Steve set their bowls aside and then, very casually, laid his arm along the back of the couch. He often sat like that. The back of the couch was just the right height for him to rest his arm there.

The men in the movie didn’t seem like such great fellas in most ways, quite frankly, but it was still pretty funny. Tony sure seemed to be enjoying it. Steve could feel Tony glancing over at him when he thought Steve wouldn’t notice, checking like he always did to make sure that Steve liked it too. And, just like always, Steve pretended not to notice him doing it, and then laughed a little louder at the funny bits. 

Steve let his arm slide off the back of the couch, real casual, then let his fingers curl gently around Tony’s shoulder. (It’s fine. Nobody cares.) Steve laughed-- the guys in the movie didn’t look very good in dresses. (Not like Ru Paul, who looked like a real lady in a dress.) Steve put just a tad of pressure on Tony’s shoulder to draw him closer, so they were side to side, thigh to thigh. (It’s okay. It’s just our friends. They don’t care.) In the flickering light of the huge TV screen, Steve reached slowly across his lap to lay his hand palm up on Tony’s thigh. Steve held his breath and glanced over. He could see Tony was smiling. Tony gave Steve’s hand a little squeeze, but when he tried to pull his hand away, Steve squeezed back and held on. 

And somebody should have told him what this movie was about! Steve’s jaw dropped when Jack Lemmon started returning Osgood’s affections. Golly.

Tony turned to grin at him. “Consider this a little bit of gay cultural history, babe,” he whispered with a lazy smirk. Steve smiled back, stroking soft little circles on the back of Tony’s hand with his thumb. 

Steve divided his attention between the movie (which is pretty hilarious) and Tony (who is far more interesting, to be honest …). Little by little, Tony’s eyes started drooping, and his body started to sag, until eventually he was fast asleep on Steve’s shoulder. Tony looked beautiful like that, relaxed and content, in the flickering light from the television screen. 

Around them, the other avengers were laughing, munching on popcorn, and enjoying themselves. Nobody stared at Steve and Tony. In fact, nobody except Bruce seemed to notice them at all, and Bruce just smiled at Steve then looked down at Tony with such obvious fondness that Steve felt a warm rush of affection for the other scientist. (You love him too. You’re such a good friend to him. To us.)

When the film concluded with Osgood saying, “Nobody’s perfect!” Steve let out such a loud, startled laugh that he was afraid he’d wake Tony, but Tony was out like a light. (Don’t move. Don’t disturb him. It’s fine.) 

Steve slipped his hand free from Tony’s, now a little sweaty, and waved at the others. 

“Tony’s asleep,” Steve told them softly. Clint looked amused, Natasha looked as warm as Steve had ever seen her, and Thor looked like he’d swallowed a bee—the expression Steve thought of as his “wanting to make loud noises and trying very hard not to!” face. 

“He’s been overworking himself again,” Steve told them with a sigh.

Natasha nodded. “Stay put. We’ve got the dishes.” 

“Thanks.” Then he added, mostly to Natasha and Bruce, “I really liked the movie.”

Bruce smiled. “It’s a classic.” He gathered Steve and Tony’s dishes. “Glad you liked it. Thanks for the chili.” 

And without any looks or fuss or remarks about Steve and Tony, all cuddled up on the couch, the rest of the team gathered the dishes, started the dishwasher, and bade each other quiet good nights. 

In the silence that followed, Steve let out a long, deep sigh, a tension he’d hardly noticed finally leaving his body. Tony let out a little snuffling noise and shifted slightly on his shoulder. Steve held perfectly still. Tony swore he slept like the dead once he fell asleep, but Steve hated to move and disturb him. They could sit, just like this, a little longer. 

Steve smiled. Just twelve days ago Steve had told Tony _everything_ in an unplanned outpouring that had felt utterly unstoppable, like a dam breaking. Just twelve days ago, in those sleek uncomfortable armchairs on the other side of this vast room. (“It’s called open floor-plan, Capsicle.”) And now Steve knew. (Tony loves me.) He’d risked everything and won. (Thank God.) It still didn’t feel entirely real. 

Very carefully, Steve shifted Tony in his arms, little by little, moving Tony’s weight farther against his chest. Steve slid his right arm down to the small of Tony’s back and used his left arm to pull Tony’s legs across his lap. Tony murmured a little, but showed no signs of waking. Steve felt torn between pleasure and concern. On the one hand, he knew this was a sign of how deeply Tony trusted him and the rest of the team; on the other hand, it showed how exhausted he was and highlighted his constant willingness to work himself to the bone. After waiting a few moments for Tony to settle, Steve cradled his lover against his chest, stood, and slowly turned his steps towards Tony’s bedroom. 

Steve had carried Tony to bed before—first, with pity and concern when Tony was blackout drunk and stinking of vomit; later with a certain resigned affection after another of Tony’s benders; and a few times after that when Tony had been wounded in battle, the suit rendered inoperative. Once, Tony had been unconscious. Steve’s heart had pounded with panic and he’d held Tony at an awkward angle to keep his chest visible so he could check the light of the arc reactor every few steps to make sure Tony was still with him. 

And he’d carried Tony again, once three months ago. Steve had found Tony face down on the kitchen counter, perched on one of the bar stools, looking like he might fall over at any moment. Steve had shaken Tony’s shoulder gently and Tony’d mumbled, still asleep, and swatted at his hand like a fly. Without trying to wake him again, Steve had tipped Tony easily from the bar stool and into his arms, feeling thrilled and flushed and guilty, knowing that he’d done it before, but knowing also that this time was different, that he shouldn’t. He wasn’t carrying Tony because he was drunk or injured or unconscious—he was carrying Tony because he wanted to hold the man in his arms and, without Tony’s permission, was stealing a moment.

So, tonight was special. Tony wasn’t drunk or hurting and Steve was allowed to hold him. This was okay. Because, really, it was Steve’s job to look after Tony. Steve smiled, but for a moment he felt a certain wistfulness. Tony was strong and in good shape, but he really couldn’t carry Steve, not like this. He could probably carry Steve fireman style if he needed to, but he couldn’t cradle Steve to his chest, an arm at his back and his knees. It would have been nice, but Steve was just too big. (Well, now, at any rate. . . )

In Tony’s room, Steve maneuvered awkwardly to pull the blankets down and then very gently lowered Tony to the bed. With careful fingers, Steve unlaced Tony’s shoes, eased them off his feet, and tucked them in the corner. Then he pulled the blankets up around Tony and went to get ready for bed. Efficiently, Steve brushed his teeth, washed his face and stripped out of his clothes. He hovered for a few moments, staring at Tony’s handsome face, savoring this marvelous privilege, before sliding into bed next to Tony and curling up around him like a cat. 

“Lights please, JARVIS,” Steve whispered and the room went dark. 

“G’night, Tony,” Steve whispered, offering up a silent prayer of gratitude. He pressed a little kiss to Tony’s shoulder. “Love you.”

A few minutes later, before even realizing he was tired, Steve fell fast asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I did fierce battle with writer's block over the holidays. Hope you like the results! :-)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I was struggling with The Conversation and this chapter kept growing and growing and causing me trouble. Also RL. Hopefully I can get the next chapter to you more quickly!

_October 23 rd, 2012_

Steve woke to the sound of Tony mumbling in his sleep. It sounded like he was saying “variable. . . twenty-seven. . . ninety-three. . . hypotenuse,” and then after a long pause, “penguin!” Steve wasn’t really sure. Whatever it was, though, he found the idea that Tony was dreaming about math penguins unbearably adorable and he propped up on his shoulder to watch. 

Tony’s face was relaxed with sleep, his lips parted. Steve noticed for the first time that there were little flecks of grey in the stubble around Tony’s well-trimmed beard, but no grey in his hair. There were fine lines around his eyes. Steve smiled. He pictured Tony frowning and squinting at the projections in the workshop, when Tony was running on too much coffee and too little sleep. 

(Beautiful. You’re beautiful.) 

Tony was still wearing his clothes from the night before, his tank top dimming the glow of the arc reactor, a grey sweatshirt covering his beautiful shoulders. Steve loved Tony’s shoulders—well-muscled without being bulky, like a classical statue only warm, so unlike cold white marble. (And sure, Greek statues had actually been polychromatic, but that’s not how you see them in museums, so it’s kinda hard to picture them that way.) Tony was built like Apollo, but he’d make a better Hephaestus—god of blacksmiths. Steve smiled. He’d probably like that. Maybe Steve would sketch him as Hephaestus sometime. Or draw the pair of them—as Achilles and Petroclus or members of the Sacred Band of Thebes, lover-warriors who fought as pairs in ancient Greece. Steve shook his head, half chuckling to himself. They’d probably look ridiculous if he tried to draw them like that. Still, it might be fun to try. 

Steve looked at Tony’s beard, fingers itching to caress his cheek, still idly picturing them in tunics and sandals. Steve had read about homosexuality in ancient Greece, following the wikipedia links back and back from his (shocked, amazed) reading on the gay rights movement in America. Steve was too old to be Tony’s _eromenos_ (thank heavens!), but there was an awkward little part of him that quite liked the idea of Tony as _erastes_ —an older, more experienced man to guide and teach him. (At least in some things . . . Well, okay, really just the one thing.) And he _certainly_ wanted Tony to teach him those things—he’d loved his lessons so far. 

(Oh God.) 

Steve swallowed, remembering the look in Tony’s eyes, somehow fierce and tender, as he’d given instructions, teaching Steve to take his cock. He remembered Tony’s voice, rough and low, pouring out filthy praise that made his cheeks heat and his cock fill. ( _“Soon you’ll be ready for me to fuck your throat . . . Bet you’ll want to practice all the time, won’t you babe? I’ll have to get you a dildo so you can keep working on it after I come.”_ Oh fuck.) Would Tony really get him a dildo? Would he order Steve to practice working it down his throat? Steve licked his lips. It sounded . . . _embarrassing_. It made something inside him twist strangely, not the straightforward rush of lust that sucking Tony’s cock gave him. The thought of it was less immediate, less intimate, than sucking Tony’s cock. Would he enjoy sucking fake cock? Practicing, preparing to please Tony? Steve shivered, feeling a rush of that strange guilty-shame-pleasure he couldn’t quite figure out. His cock was aching, thick and heavy between his legs. 

Steve wanted to practice. He wanted to learn everything, wanted to drive Tony half-mad with pleasure until he’d wiped the memory of all Tony’s other lovers from his mind, every single one of them. (Idiot—it’s ridiculous to be jealous. He loves _you_.) He’d master everything Tony would teach him. Steve breathed in through his nose and tried to relax his throat, imagining Tony’s cock deep inside him. He’d kneel on the floor and Tony would wrap his fist in Steve’s hair to move his head, pulling almost too hard, but not quite. Tony’d be panting, gasping out praise and filth: _That’s it. Beautiful . . . You’re mine. So good at it, baby . . . good boy . . . you love it, love me fucking your throat . . . take it! You’re such a pretty slut, eager for my cock . . . you take it so well. . . Fuck!_

Steve closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, breathing in Tony’s scent. His hips twitched, his hard cock eager for friction. Tony was still asleep. Maybe it would be okay to wake him up with a blow job? Tony had teased him about asking for permission before. What had he said? _“I’m a man being offered a blowjob. I’m never gonna say no.”_ Steve bit his lip, hesitating. Tony was sleeping and he _did_ need his sleep. Tony nevergot enough sleep. It would be selfish to wake him up just because Steve was in the mood. 

Steve took another deep breath, intending to calm himself, but _fuck_ Tony smelled amazing. Steve nearly groaned. He closed his eyes and tried to think about something else. Penguins. Morgan Freeman. Penguins. Was Tony really dreaming about math and penguins? Had he ever dreamed about sex with Steve? About Steve sucking his cock?

(Shit.)

Would Tony remember that he’d promised—or was it _threatened_?—to get Steve a dildo for practice? Should he remind him? (Yes! No. Maybe? Embarrassing.) Steve nearly laughed at himself. It hadn’t even been forty-eight hours, way too soon to think Tony had forgotten. Besides, Tony had been working on—huh. Steve wasn’t actually sure what to call it. Project Sex with Steve? Project Kinky Sex God? (That actually sounds a bit like Tony.) The images had been, uh, fascinating. The intricate rope bondage had been especially striking. Was Tony planning to tie him up like that? Soon? Maybe he’d tie Steve up, cover his whole body in a lattice of rope-work that would leave Steve totally unable to move. Then Tony’d torment him like he’d threatened. Tony’d tease him at first, just trailing his fingers lightly over Steve’s hole, until he was gasping. Then he’d finally press inside with a finger, just one, so gentle. Tony’d finger Steve like that until Steve’s chest was heaving. Tony’d just playing with him, not filling him enough, not pressing in hard enough, until Steve would be sobbing and begging Tony to fuck him hard and fast and rough and--

Tony let out a little murmuring noise and stirred; Steve’s eyes snapped open. 

“Tony?” Steve whispered, a little louder than he’d meant to.

“Mmmm,” Tony mumbled and rolled over, pressing himself up against Steve’s body. (Oh fuck!) Steve could feel Tony’s morning erection rubbing against his thigh. He bit off a little moan. 

“Tony? Are you awake?” Steve whispered breathlessly. 

“Mmm-hmm.” Tony pressed closer, rolling his hips and pushing his face to Steve’s shoulder. 

Good enough. 

“Oh God, Tony,” Steve murmured, reaching out to caress Tony urgently through his clothes. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses to Tony’s cheek and neck, rutting against him eagerly. Tony’s eyes fluttered open; he gave Steve a lazy, sleepy smile and rolled his hips again. Steve threw his head back and Tony nipped at his neck. Everything felt so good. He wanted to make Tony feel good. He wanted Tony to push him down his body, tell him what to do. Or maybe he should beg for it? Beg to suck Tony’s cock?

Steve opened his mouth to speak, but then Tony was kissing him, licking at his lips and pressing his tongue inside. Steve moaned into Tony’s mouth. Tony took hold of Steve’s hip and set up a slow, rocking motion, thrusting and rolling. His tongue fucked in and out of Steve’s mouth, fingers curling tight around the back of Steve’s neck. Steve fumbled awkwardly under the covers, yanking at Tony’s sweatpants, desperate for skin on skin. Tony wiggled his hips obligingly and soon they were cock to cock, hard flesh and velvety skin all slickened with pre-come. They were both panting. Roll and thrust, roll and thrust. Push, pull, push, pull. The moments melted together. Roll, thrust, push, pull.

“Mmm,” Tony murmured again, then whispered, voice hot and wet against Steve’s throat, “ _Steve_.” 

Tony clutched at him, fingernails digging into the back of Steve’s neck. (Oh!) Steve gasped and came, shuddering and jerking against Tony’s lean body. (Oh, God. Tony . . .) He shivered.

Tony’s motions slowed, then stopped. He pushed Steve gently, encouraging him to flop back into the pillows, then shifted on top of him. As they exchanged languorous kisses, Tony rocked against Steve’s hip with slow, lazy motions, his cock sliding easily, slick and messy. Steve gasped and moaned. His come. Tony’s cock was coved with his come, and the thought was so filthy-hot that Steve was amazed he didn’t get hard again on the spot. Steve wished he knew what to do, but Tony seemed happy to just kiss Steve and thrust up against his hip, pace easy and unhurried. Steve ran his fingers through Tony’s hair and kissed him back, long and deep and slow. 

When Tony came it was with more of a sigh than a gasp and he seemed to melt down into Steve’s body. Steve held him tight and turned his head to kiss Tony’s forehead. He ran his fingers through Tony’s hair and caressed the back of his neck. 

After a few moments, Tony chuckled and propped up to look at him. “Well, good morning.” 

Steve grinned. “Good morning!” 

Tony wiped them off awkwardly with the sheet, then settled back against Steve. He smiled and said in a teasing voice, “You know, it’s funny-- I don’t remember getting to bed last night.”

“That is funny,” Steve agreed with mock solemnity. “Yet here you are.” 

“Yeah, here I am.” Tony raised an eyebrow. “I’m going to assume that if _someone_ carried me to bed, that _someone_ made sure there were no witnesses.”

“Good assumption,” Steve said solemnly.

“I’m glad,” Tony answered with an amused little smirk, then said with mock seriousness, “I must have my dignity, after all.” Steve just snorted. 

“So,” Tony said with a long stretch, “what’s on for today?”

“Mostly training with Natasha. We’re working on a few collaborative moves with the shield, launches and things. And I should really do that reading Fury sent over yesterday.” Steve sighed and reached up to caress Tony’s neck as he added, “And there’s a sketch I’d like to start and, um, that painting I mentioned earlier.” He paused then gave Tony a shy little smile, “And, well, I was hoping I could take you on a date tonight. If you have time, I mean.” 

Tony blinked. “Sure, I—“ He blinked again. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

Steve leaned up for a kiss, feeling very pleased with himself, and asked: “So, what about you? Workshop?”

“Yep,” Tony said, looking a little nervous. “You know me so well. Workshop, workshop, workshop.” 

“I really understand, if you’re too busy for—”

“No!” Tony shook his head. “No. It’s good. I’ll be ready. Uh, what time?”

“How about seven?”

“Done!” Tony chuckled. “Would you look at that? Miracles do happen—this was shockingly like a conversation and I haven’t had any coffee yet.” 

Steve gasped and pressed his hand to his chest. “My God! What was I thinking? Better get you some coffee, stat!” Steve kissed him and then rolled out of bed. He hesitated then asked softly, “Shall I bring it to you?” but Tony was already throwing back the covers.

“Nah. No need.” Tony waved him off. “Hey, JARVIS, start the coffee in my workshop!”

“Certainly, sir.”

“See you later, babe,” Tony said, leaning up to give Steve a quick kiss. “Try not to let Natasha kill you.” With that, Tony disappeared into his enormous bathroom. 

Steve stood awkwardly in the middle of Tony’s bedroom for a moment, then shrugged and pulled his dirty clothes back on. (Okay, really should get a robe up here. Or maybe bring some clothes up? Shit, no. Too soon, stupid. Don’t scare him!) Steve swallowed and headed for the door. He had just enough time for a run before training. 

***

Tony spent the morning thinking in his workshop and distractedly tinkering around with new arrows for Clint. Steve was clearly still eager. A little knot of tension had uncurled in Tony’s stomach that morning, releasing the (absurd, ridiculous) concern that maybe Steve had been lying earlier, that he really had been distressed, deeply & profoundly, that he’d realized this whole thing was a terrible mistake, but couldn’t make himself talk about his real concerns, so little by little he’d reject Tony’s touch and start to pull away until there was nothing left but a terrible politeness between them. (See? Absurd. That’s the sort of fucked-up, illogical thing an emotionally stunted genius would do, not Steve.) 

Steve’s sweet eagerness, the open affection on his face, had soothed even Tony’s most paranoid fears. And it was a good thing Steve had pounced him when his brain was still off-line—it removed the possibility that Tony would over-think and do something stupid. And they’d reconnected physically, without any sort of power exchange! So really, today was a great day to Talk. Perfect, really. Better than last night, even if that was when he’d meant to do it. (Oops.) 

Steve was taking him on a date tonight. They’d talk after that. It would be fine. Tony turned his attention back to the schematics for Clint’s programmable arrows and realized he was repeating work he’d already done. 

“JARVIS, save and close all that. Bring up the Mark VII plans.”

An hour later, Tony threw up his hands. He’d made computation errors. Computation! It wasn’t even math. He couldn’t concentrate. He downed his coffee and resisted the temptation to go get something stronger. (Bad idea. Don’t.) He’d been planning out The Conversation with more than just the back of his mind-- obviously, if he was screwing up his specs with fucking _computation errors_. 

(Best get it over with.)

“JARVIS, where’s Steve?”

“Captain Rogers is currently at the entertainment station in the common room.” 

Tony headed for the elevator. (Here goes nothing. Talking. About feelings. And stuff. Yay.) Tony shook his head. He found Steve settled comfortably on the couch in front of Tony’s _obscenely_ large flat-screen tv, reading a book. 

“Did you try turning it off and back on again?” Tony asked, eyebrow raised. 

“Huh?” 

“The TV. Technical difficulties. I assume that’s why you’re reading a book instead of, you know, using the TV?” 

Steve rolled his eyes. “Ha ha. No, I just like this couch. And I like reading.”

“That the stuff Fury sent over?”

Steve shook his head. “Nope. I finished that. Wasn’t very useful—I’m starting to think that he worries I’m bored or something.” 

Tony laughed. “Old one-eye giving you busy work?”

Steve shrugged. “Maybe.”

(Go on, stupid. Stop procrastinating with small talk.) Tony paused, then asked, “So, how was training with Natasha?” 

“Good!” Steve’s expression brightened, then he looked a little sheepish, “Though, uh, the ceiling in the gym was a little low for what we were working on. We got a pretty high launch going. I think we might need to work outside next time.” 

Tony let out a low whistle. “Impressive. I can alter the gym if you want though. We could expand into the floor above it maybe.” 

Steve shrugged. “Sure. We’ll figure something out if we need to.” 

Tony rubbed the back of his neck and resisted the temptation to fidget. Steve just sat there, looking up at him expectantly, curiously.

“So, uh, you’re not busy?” Tony asked. 

Steve shook his head and set aside _An Illustrated Guide to Greek Mythology & Culture_. Then he gave Tony a mischievous little smile, full of erotic promise. Tony faltered. (Er, not like that.) “Because I wanted to talk with you. In private.”

Steve looked intrigued, but not nervous as he followed Tony to his bedroom. (And isn’t that a classic illustration of the difference between us? If Steve ‘wanted to Talk’ I’d already be shitting my pants….) Once Tony closed the door, Steve was right there, all strong muscles and hot skin pressed up against his back. 

“Hi,” Steve purred. 

(Wow. Are you trying to distract me with sex? Okay, then we’re more similar than I thought.) 

“Tony?” Steve murmured. When Tony turned, Steve leaned down for an eager, open-mouthed kiss. Mmm. Tony let himself be swept up for a few moments-- tongues caressing, all wet heat, before he remembered his purpose and pulled away. 

“I really did want to talk , you know.” 

“Okay,” Steve said, amiably. “And I really wanted a kiss.” He smiled. “Thanks for obliging me.” 

“Yeah.” Tony stood staring at him. (Ah, shit. Awkward.) Tony swallowed. He took Steve by the hand. “Come on, sweetheart. Come sit on the bed with me, would ya?” 

Steve followed, content to be pulled along. He settled into Tony’s open arms, and rested his head on Tony’s chest, still holding his hand. 

(Good. Better. ) 

Tony took a deep breath. 

(Here goes nothing . . . )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading and sorry for the long wait! Hope you liked it. The Conversation will be in the next chapter. ;-)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last: The Conversation. I had no idea that the end of chapter two would be considered a cliff hanger-- please accept my apologies and chapter 3 by way of recompense. Thank you for your kind words of (outraged) enthusiasm! :-)
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Jaune_Chat, with gratitude and affection for all her kind support.

“I wanted to ask you about earlier,” Tony began. “The night before, I mean.” Pause. “I was pretty surprised that you hadn’t run across ‘safeword’ before. Um. Wanna talk about that?”

(Smooth, Tony, real smooth. That was NOT the speech we practiced in the workshop, now was it?)

Steve leaned back and looked up at him a little bemused, but unconcerned. He shrugged. “It wasn’t on the list,” Steve said, cocking his head. At Tony’s look of confusion, he clarified, “When you gave me the spreadsheet, I put the words I didn’t know into wikipedia.”

Tony felt a little rush of panic. (Calm down. This is what you expected, remember?)

“Oh. That’s all you’ve read?” Tony tried to sound interested, but casual. “So, in your process of—” he fumbled for the right word, “ _self-discovery_ you didn’t read any resources on BDSM? I mean, you didn’t—” 

(Shit. You’re supposed to be getting information, not making accusations. What is it Pepper says? Open ended questions?) 

Tony took a breath. 

“Steve, can you . . . can you tell me how you first discovered what you want? I mean, before you told me and slid to your knees, you’d clearly thought about it a lot. How did you get to that point?”

Steve bit his lip. “I think it’s always been what I wanted, but it used to be complicated. I—” Steve glanced away, frowning. He was silent. Tony waited. Steve was silent so long that Tony found himself struggling not to say something, to fill the gap with his usual rambling. He ran his hand up Steve’s back to caress his neck, rubbing soothing little circles. Steve remained quiet. Maybe Tony really did need to prompt him. Be more specific maybe? Tony was considering it when Steve finally spoke, his voice frustrated: “Does it really matter? I mean, I know _now_.”

Tony was a bit startled by Steve’s tone, but hoped it didn’t show. He took a breath.

“It matters to me,” Tony said softly, stroking Steve’s hair. “But you don’t have to tell me about it now if you don’t want to. You don’t _have_ to tell me at all. But, I do want to know. I want to understand you, Steve.” Tony paused. (Go on-- affirm and reassure.) “Because I love you.”

Steve let out a frustrated little noise. “Fine.” It sounded curt and vexed. 

(Shit.) Tony hugged Steve close, continued the little caresses. Should he let it drop? Did the ‘I love you’ seem manipulative? He hadn’t meant it to be. Tony was fumbling around, trying to find a way to turn the conversation back in the right direction. 

Before he could formulate a plan, though, Steve sighed and said quietly, “Tony, I used to be so _tiny_ , you can’t imagine . . .” Steve’s brow was furrowed. He sighed again, relaxing against Tony a little more. When he spoke, he sounded more tired than angry: “Mostly back then I tried not to think about it, the way I tried not to think about men.” He paused. “But when I did think about it, it made me feel _weak_.”

(Oh, fuck.) Tony took a sharp breath. (Shit. I didn’t mean to drag out your past like this. I—)

Steve continued, and now he sounded frustrated, a hint angry again: “I used to get beat up all the time and pinned down a lot. It seemed like some sick part of my brain was saying that, since I’d never be able to resist I should just give up and _take it_. That I wasn’t a _real man_.” The words sounded scornful, a more bitter noise than Tony could remember hearing from Steve. “Since I couldn’t be a real man, I’d never get a gal; so, I’d better like other men, better like being pushed around, on my knees, tied up.” Steve’s hand clenched in a fist. He took a long, deep breath, then said, his voice calm and quiet: “Tony, it was . . . _ugly_.” 

Steve stared into the distance for a moment, his face empty; it was the blank expression he used to hide his feelings from the team. Tony stared helplessly, trying to formulate a response, offer some comfort other than physical affection. Before he could figure out what to say, Steve shook his head and continued.

“Things changed when I got the serum. Nobody could hold me down and do things to me if I didn’t want them to. Regular ropes weren’t gonna hold me anymore.” The first hint of a smile played at the corner of Steve’s lips and his voice was returning to normal. 

“And-- ” Steve swallowed and looked up at Tony again, his voice soft when he spoke, “and then I started to wonder, if the way I am was actually something wrong with me, why didn’t it go away like my asthma? I mean, if it’s really a sickness-- wanting men, wanting what I want-- wouldn’t it go away too?” Steve gave a little shrug. “But there was a war on and I didn’t have that much time to think about it, especially since I was trying not to anyway.”

Steve shifted closer to Tony on the bed, head against Tony’s chest. He stared, eyes unfocused, lost in thought. Tony’s heart was pounding. After a few long moments, Steve shook himself and continued.

“Then, here I was in 2010 and suddenly it’s okay to want another man and . . .” Steve smiled a little and seemed to breathe easier. “I guess, the more I thought about it, the more I realized I’m still _myself_ no matter what. If I kneel at someone’s feet it’s because I choose to and because he—because _you_ \--want me to. It’s not because I’m weak. I never was weak—I mean, physically sure, but not . . . not _inside_.” Steve glanced down, looking embarrassed, as if Tony might think he was bragging. (Oh fuck, I love you.) 

“So, first, I guess I had to figure out that it really is okay to want another man—to want you. After that,” Steve shrugged, “it wasn’t so hard to figure out the rest of it.” Steve squeezed Tony’s hand. “I’m not ashamed anymore, just angry at myself that I used to be.” He looked rueful for a second, then squeezed Tony’s hand again and added, voice so earnest Tony’s throat felt tight: “Now, it just feels right.” 

Tony stared at him, speechless, for a few moments, then breathed, “God, _Steve_.” Tony dropped kisses on Steve’s forehead and into his soft blond hair. “I—thank you for telling me.”

Steve just shrugged. “Uh. I hope that made sense. Is . . . was that what you wanted to know?”

Tony held him tight. “I want to know everything.” Tony kissed him—he’d meant it to be soft and gentle, but it turned out fierce and possessive. Steve didn’t seem to mind. He clutched at Tony’s shoulder and arched into the kiss. 

“I want to know everything you want to tell me,” Tony whispered against his lips.

“I want you to know,” Steve whispered back. He shivered and pressed his head to Tony’s chest as he added, “I want you to know, even when it’s hard to say.” 

Tony swallowed. His voice was thick. “I love you, Steve.”

Steve smiled against Tony’s chest. 

“I know.” Tony let out a startled little laugh. 

“Was that a _Star Wars_ reference, you Trekie?”

“I admit nothing!” 

“Oh, fuck I love you!” Tony blurted. 

Steve chuckled. “I love you too.” Steve rubbed his cheek against Tony’s chest and up to his neck, nuzzling him like a cat. Tony stroked him, tension draining out of his body. 

(And, okay, we’re really far off script, but it seems like it’s going well.) Tony kissed Steve on the forehead and Steve made a pleased little noise. (Go on. We’re not done here.)

“Steve?” Tony said, his voice a little uncertain. “Can I ask you something else?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Steve murmured. Tony was relieved to feel that the question didn’t make Steve tense up.

“It’s about safewords again. You said you read wikipedia when you were doing the spreadsheet. But, you just looked up the words? Didn’t do any more exploring?”

“No, not really.” Steve bit his lip. 

“You weren’t curious?”

Steve shrugged. “A little I guess, but it all seemed so . . . overwhelming.” 

“Overwhelming?”

Steve nodded. 

“What do you mean?”

Steve squirmed. “Well, uh, a while ago, I found some, um, videos.” Steve blushed. “Some of them were, uh, _hot_ , but then some of them . . . they kinda upset me and I had to get JARVIS to help me look it up and make sure it was all pretend, but it was-- after that, I stayed away from those things.” Steve hurried on as if eager to prevent any follow up. (Oh, I am so asking you about porn some other time! That’s just—oh _fuck_.)

“And now . . . I just . . .” Steve shrugged again. “I guess it feels a little weird reading about this, about how other people have _these_ relationships. I mean, none of that matters. I don’t want some stranger telling me how to behave with you and what things mean. We’re doing this together-- I want _you_ to be the one who defines everything and explains it to me, teaches me. And . . .” Steve paused, clearly considering his words. Tony was desperate to cut in, but knew better; he bit his tongue to keep silent. 

Eventually, Steve gave Tony a sheepish little smile, “I mean, I don’t know. It felt almost like it would be cheating. Like I was looking behind the curtain at secret mysteries I’d rather learn about from you. Because . . . you’re in charge and I love you.” 

(Oh fuck.) Tony really hoped his panic didn’t show on his face. (Shit, shit, shit!) 

“I, uh. Wow. Steve, that’s… Uh, I’m honored.” (Pull it together, Stark!) Tony’s heart was pounding hard and frantic in his chest—he wondered distantly if Steve could hear it loud and clear. Tony took a deep breath. Then another. (Come on, stupid. This was kinda what you expected. Sort of.)

“Steve, that’s . . . well, it’s incredibly sweet. But I’ve never done this before and--” Tony took another deep breath, held it for a moment, then exhaled slowly. “The other night, I was really worried about you, Steve,” Tony said softly. “When you started crying like that, I thought I’d fucked everything up and really hurt you.” 

“You’d never hurt me,” Steve said solemnly, with absolute confidence. Tony’s heart clenched. He let out a strangled little noise, then took a deep breath.

“Uh, that’s real sweet, Steve, and yeah, not on purpose, but I could definitely hurt you. I really could. This . . . this _thing_ we’re doing. It can go really fucking wrong and you could get hurt.” Steve let out a skeptical little snort. “Maybe not physically, but there are other kinds of hurting and—“ Steve opened his mouth to interrupt, but Tony pressed a finger to his lips. “Shhh. Just, wait. Let me think for a second and finish what I need to say, then you can have your turn.”

(And, wow, I just pulled A Pepper. Huh.) 

“Look, Steve. It’s kinda like learning another language. I need to know that we’re using the same words the same way, that we have a vocabulary to communicate about BDSM. I mean, so far we’ve been doing a lot of ‘it’ and ‘this’ and ‘this way’—all kinds of vague, between-the-lines talk, but that isn’t very clear. And clarity matters.” 

(Seriously? I’m giving a talk about clear communication in a relationship? Ha! I think Pepper might die laughing, not that I’d tell her and— Okay, let’s just stop there, hm?)

Steve propped up on one elbow to look at Tony. His expression was curious and intent, but not distressed in the least. (Good sign!) Reassured, Tony continued. 

“I think it’s safe to say, you’re a submissive or ‘sub.’ I’m your dominant or ‘dom.’ People call what we’ve been doing BDSM—which actually stands for six things: bondage, discipline, dominance, submission, sadism, and masochism. At this point though, we’ve really only done the bondage, dominance and submission parts of that. We may decide to explore discipline and sadomasochism, we may not. We can figure that out later, but this is all vocabulary that matters.”

Steve nodded. Tony smiled and leaned up to give Steve a quick peck. He cupped Steve’s face with one hand, caressing his cheek with his thumb. Steve smiled and leaned into the touch, looking down at him with wide blue eyes. Tony’s breath caught. (So beautiful, so trusting. Fuck, Steve.) 

Tony wet his lips and fumbled a moment for his train of thought before continuing:

“As for not wanting to let someone else dictate how we practice BDSM—” Tony shrugged, “--I don’t think you need to worry about that. Things you could read, they’re more like general guidelines and possibilities, or maybe a philosophy rather than imperatives.” Tony paused for a moment, then continued, “I mean, you can read about battle strategies and tactics in the abstract, but still make them your own in a given situation. In fact, you have to do that, since no book is going to predict and work for every nuance in a battle. Same thing here. Now that I think about it, though, I’m not happy with the analogy I chose, but, hey—you like poetry! There are probably, like, a million poems depicting love as war or something like that.” Steve looked amused and Tony shook his head, dismissing the tangent. 

“The point is, doing the research isn’t cheating. It’s important. No matter what, we’ll still figure out how _we’re_ doing this together—nobody can tell us what to do. But they can help us avoid making mistakes that might hurt us. There’s no reason to reinvent the wheel here. And it’s not really that different from the research you did for the spreadsheet, right? That didn’t seem weird, did it?”

Steve shook his head, acknowledging Tony’s point. Tony waited a few moments to see if he might follow up, but Steve just looked at him expectantly, so Tony went on:

“I’m going to get you a book. Maybe a couple. They’re things I liked. And I’ll get at least one written specifically for you—I mean, for submissives, so you won’t have to feel like you’re looking into the Dom’s Handbook without permission or something. But please, Steve, please read the things I give you.” 

Steve nodded and Tony glanced away. His voice went thick: “I . . . I don’t want to hurt you. At first, I wasn’t sure this was something I could do, but now I . . . I think I can and I want to, but if I hurt you I—I’d—“ It felt like the arc reactor had expanded too wide and was squeezing the air out of his chest. (Calm down, stupid. He’s right here and he’s fine.) 

Steve reached out to touch his cheek, turning Tony’s face back towards him, as he gave Tony this unbearably tender look, edged with guilt. He stayed just like that, gazing into Tony’s eyes for several long, aching moments, then tucked himself down into Tony’s arms again. 

“Christ, Tony,” Steve mumbled against his chest. “I don’t deserve you.” He swallowed loudly. “And, of course, I’ll read whatever you think I should. Just tell me and I’ll do it.” 

And Tony nearly laughed out loud at that, amused and relieved all at once. Because that’s what it came down to, wasn’t it? If Tony ordered Steve to read up on BDSM, he was happy to obey. 

Tony stroked Steve’s hair, relishing its softness and the little contented humming noise Steve let out. (Huh.) Tony smiled. (That didn’t turn out so badly, did it?)

“So,” he said softly, “our date’s at 7?”

Steve nodded. 

“Good. I’m looking forward to it.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you for joining me on Steve and Tony's adventures! It's a privilege sharing this with you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

“Stay still, would ya, Dummy?” 

Dummy chirped while Tony oiled his joints.

It had gone well. Really well. A part of Tony was still reeling in shock—he’d initiated a conversation. About a relationship. And communication! Communication in a relationship. He’d never been good at these things before—not that he’d really had many real relationships, not the kind he’d put true effort into. (Really, just Pepper . . .) Tony blinked. 

If it hadn’t been for the obvious dangers involved in power exchange, not to mention the fact that Steve had _broken down sobbing_ , he probably wouldn’t have managed to talk like that. But it had gone well and he felt _good_. He’d even used some of the techniques that Pepper—

Tony tightened up one of Dummy’s screws, tested the joint, then paused.

“JARVIS? Get me Flowers on Fifth on the line.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Good afternoon. Flowers on Fifth. Linda speaking.” 

“Linda, hey! It’s Tony Stark.” 

“Mr. Stark. How lovely to hear from you. What can I do for you today?”

“I need a gigantic bouquet.” Tony unscrewed another of Dummy’s joints and replaced the bolt. “Really big, but one that says friendship not romance.” 

“Of course. Perhaps vibrant colors mixed with yellow roses? Yellow roses are traditionally associated with friendship.” 

“Yeah, sure. Fine, just not too many roses. I dunno.” Tony wiped some excess oil off Dummy and frowned. “Look, they’re for Pepper so you know what she likes to order. It’s going to her office at the new Stark Industries building. And I want you to send somebody out to buy three—no, six—pairs of Manolo Blahniks, size nine, and work those into the bouquet somehow.” 

“Right away. We always enjoy challenge, Mr. Stark. Shall I put it on your account?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Oh! And I want to write the note myself—I’ll leave it at the desk in the lobby of Stark Tower.” 

“I’ll send someone over to pick it up right away.” 

“Great. Thanks.” Tony paused reaching out for a fresh screw. “Actually, since you’re coming, bring over a dozen roses—red and white. Have security send them up to the 50th.” 

“Of course, Mr. Stark. A pleasure, as always.” 

Tony finished up with Dummy, wiped him off, and shooed him across the workshop. Tony’s own joints creaked as he got up off the floor and he frowned. (Ugh. Old.) He rummaged around in the workshop for a piece of paper. And, seriously, when was the last time he’d done that? After a while, in the bottom of a drawer, he found a yellow legal pad and a variety of pens. The first five he tried were dried out, but he eventually found one that worked and jotted down a quick note: 

_Pepper— Thank you. You’ve taught me a lot and I’m grateful. Always, Tony_

Tony nodded in satisfaction and called up the Mark VII plans. He had a few hours to make some progress before his date. 

***

Steve frowned. He’d done at least twenty sketches of Tony’s face for his latest project, but none of them were satisfactory. It was his facial expression Steve couldn’t quite master. In one, he looked too serious, in another too stern, and in another simply angry. It was hard to replicate the rare mix of commanding strength and gentle affection that graced Tony’s features when gave orders or watched Steve kneeling obediently for him. It was a beautiful expression and it constantly eluded Steve’s abilities to reproduce it. 

Steve took out a fresh sheet of paper. He wouldn’t give up. He’d just keep trying until he could get it right and then he’d be able to continue his painting. He sketched out the familiar lines of Tony’s jaw, his cheeks, the curve of his forehead. Steve took a sip of tea. Earl grey, which still reminded him of Peggy, but in a good way. His little studio—with easels and drawing boards, paints and charcoal—was always a refuge.

Talking to Tony had been exhausting—he hated revisiting those dark thoughts, that self-loathing—but now he felt freer, lighter, as if Tony had taken a terrible burden from his shoulders. (God, I love him.) Steve shaded in the dark whiskers of Tony’s goatee, blending them to softness with his finger. (I don’t have to hide the past from him.) He took a long, calming breath as Tony’s features took shape on the page. (We’re good. Everything’s good.) His hands moved steadily, smooth familiar motions. (Tony was really worried about me.) Steve paused, feeling a pang of guilt. He hadn’t meant to cry like that, hadn’t meant to worry Tony. (He takes such good care of me . . . I shouldn’t worry him. . .) Slowly, Steve resumed the sketch, finishing up Tony’s beautiful eyes. (It’s okay. I’ll read anything he gives me. He said that would make him worry less. It’s fine. We’re fine.) 

Steve held back the sketch and examined it for a few long moments before discarding it with a sigh. The sketching, tea, and quiet time to think had done him a world of good, but it didn’t look like he was going to make an artistic breakthrough today. Steve walked over to the sink and washed the charcoal from his hands.

Time for a change of scenery. He had a date to plan!

***

“Sir, Ms. Potts is on the line.”

“Cut the music, put her through.”

“Tony, are you all right?” Pepper asked, her flustered voice echoing across the speakers in the workshop. 

“Pep! Is that any way to greet me?” 

“Tony, you just sent me a cryptic hand-written thank you note and a four-thousand dollar bouquet of flowers and shoes. The last time you tried to _cook_ for me, you were dying. So, I repeat—are you all right?”

“I’m fine, Pepper.” 

“You’re not injured? Or sick? Or leaving on an insanely dangerous mission from which you’re not expected to return?” 

“No. None of that.” 

“Thank God, Tony,” her voice sounded pained. “Don’t scare me like that. My heart really can’t handle it.” She exhaled loudly into the phone. “Now then. What’s going on?”

“Nothing! Well, okay, maybe not nothing. But it’s not bad. I’ll tell you about it over lunch sometime. Anyhow, can’t I just show my appreciation for you?”

“No, you really can’t.” Pepper paused. “Well. It’s been far too long, Mr. Stark. Is your schedule clear for lunch tomorrow? I’ll still be in town. Shall I have my assistant call your assistant to check?” 

“Lunch? Tomorrow?” Tony cringed a bit inwardly. (That’s really _soon_.) He shook himself. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Sounds fine.” 

“Good.” Pepper hesitated. “You’re sure you’re okay, Tony?” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake! If this is the thanks I get for flowers and shoes of gratitude, trust me, I’m learning my lesson.” Pepper didn’t reply and after a moment Tony added softly, “Really, Pep. I’m great. I’ll see you tomorrow. 1pm? Marseilles?” 

“Perfect. I’ll see you there.” 

Tony checked his watch. An hour and twenty minutes-- Flowers on Fifth knew their shit. 

***

Steve leaned heavily against the kitchen counter, slouching on his bar stool and frowning at the twenty-two tabs he had open on his laptop. Trying to find a good restaurant in New York shouldn’t be hard, but finding a restaurant for a date with Tony posed a bit of a challenge. The restaurant needed to be good, obviously, but not so swanky that Steve would feel uncomfortable. (Also, best if it’s not the sort of place the paparazzi hang around…) So, someplace quiet and homey where they wouldn’t attract too much attention. Of course, there was the usual shawarma joint, Tony’s favorite Chinese restaurant, the sushi place Bruce loved, the fried chicken joint Thor dragged them to, Clint’s pizza place (not as good as Piaci), and Natasha’s _tapas_ place (where they had to order fifty dishes to have enough food). They were all great, and the owners were used to them. But, well, those were all _Avengers_ spots—he wanted someplace that wasn’t already a team place. So it would feel like a _date_. He sighed. 

“You all right?” Bruce asked wandering into the kitchen. He put the kettle on the stove. Steve nodded then gave a little shrug. Bruce filled his favorite teapot with looseleaf tea then nodded at the laptop and asked, “Anything I can help with?”

Steve shook his head, then answered a little hesitantly, “Just trying to plan a date with Tony.” He sighed. “But it’s hard, ‘cause he’s—well, he’s _Tony_.” 

Bruce chuckled. “Yeah. I know what you mean. Tea?” 

“Thanks, Bruce. That would be great.” 

Steve usually didn’t like Bruce’s tea, but he’d realized it was a little like Tony’s offers of alcohol—something to share, an aid to conversation. Besides, Steve was committed to trying new things. After all, he’d come to like sushi and how weird was that? 

They waited in companionable silence for the kettle to boil. Then once the tea was steeping, Bruce asked, “Would you like my advice?”

“Sure,” Steve said with a smile. Bruce was the only person in the Tower who _asked_ before giving advice. Bruce poured Steve’s cup of tea first—he knew Steve didn’t like his as strong.

“It’s just like you said,” Bruce told him with a shrug. “He’s _Tony_. I’d imagine that taking him on a date is a little like trying to get him a birthday present. I mean, he can buy himself anything money can buy.”

Steve nodded and took a sip of tea. It was smoky, but not too much. 

“But that’s just it,” Bruce continued, playing with his glasses absently. “Not only can Tony buy dinner at any restaurant in town, he could buy the restaurant. He may like the food some places more than others, but he doesn’t really care about that kind of thing.” 

Bruce poured his own cup and smiled at Steve. “I don’t think it matters where you go, as long as you go together. So just pick a place you’re comfortable with and don’t worry about it. He’ll love it if he’s with you. Ah,” Bruce gave him an embarrassed little smile, and an awkward pat on his hand. “Well, that’s what I think.” 

“Thanks, Bruce.” Steve took a sip of tea. A few years ago ( _before_ ), he couldn’t possibly have imagined talking to a member of his unit about wooing another man. Bruce made it seem so _normal_. No big deal. “Bruce--” Steve took a deep breath. “Thank you. I really appreciate your advice.”

“Oh, uh, good.” Bruce took another sip of tea. “No problem.”

***

Tony was so engrossed in the Mark VII that he didn’t hear Steve (admittedly, over Metallica), until he was right behind him and saying softly, “Thank you for the flowers, Tony.” 

“Jesus, babe! Don’t sneak up on me like that!” He pressed his palm to his chest and gasped dramatically. “Ticker can’t handle it.”

“Tony, I called your name four times.”

“You did? Oh. Well then. Wait, what time is it?”

“It’s almost seven.”

“Shit! Sorry. Uh,” Tony gestured a bit sheepishly at the projections. “I fine tuned the repulsors so they operate on a scale using—” (Seriously, he doesn’t want details!) “Er, I created the equivalent of ‘phasers on stun.’” Tony smirked. “Just think! Now you can tell me to go in ‘phasers on stun,’ like that other Captain you’re so inexplicably fond of.”

“It isn’t inexplicable. I admit Kirk isn’t perfect by a long shot—”

“Ha! You think?”

“But he does have admirable qualities!” Steve looked like he would say more, then changed his mind and shook his head. He glanced around at the glowing blue schematics and hesitated. “Do you still have time for dinner?”

“Yes! Yes, sorry. I can go now. Or, do I need to change?” Tony went on before Steve could answer, “JARVIS, save and close all this. So, wait, where are we going and what should I wear?” 

“You don’t need to dress up or anything. I, uh—“ Steve looked nervous. “Well, the thing is, I was wondering if you’d mind terribly if we went to Piaci again?” Steve looked so uncertain and hopeful, his voice rising up into a question at the end.

Tony blinked. “Sure. I mean, why not? It was great and it’s kinda your favorite, right? Maybe this time I can convince you to try something other than pepperoni.” 

Steve grinned, ushering him towards the elevator. “No lettuce on pizza, Tony! If you want lettuce, order a salad.”

“I told you, arugula is a field green.” 

They stopped off in Tony’s suite so he could grab a fresh shirt. Steve waited in the hall. (What? Afraid we’ll maul each other again before we can get out the door? Like that’s a bad thing!) Tony checked himself in the mirror and realized that the thin cotton didn’t fully cover the light of the arc reactor. He pulled on a sweater as well and grabbed his jacket. Repentant for his tardiness, he didn’t even kick up a fuss over the motorcycle or the stupid commercial helmet. Besides, even with leather and helmets between them, there was something deeply satisfying about slotting himself into place behind Steve and wrapping his arms around the man’s surprisingly narrow waist while the engine roared beneath them. 

Piaci was much as Tony remembered it-- a pub with bonus pizza rather than an Italian restaurant—but this time, he found himself looking for clues about why Steve had chosen it a second time. In the window, below the shifty-eyed “speak-easy” sign, was a hand written sign that proclaimed in all caps: “cell phones and cameras prohibited.” The sign looked new.

Jake was pulling a pint at the bar. He nodded to Steve, then gestured to their table with his chin. Another smaller sign at the bar proclaimed, “Cell phones are a privilege, not a right.” Tony suppressed a chuckle behind his menu. When Jake approached the table he automatically brought over breadsticks and a beer—big and blond— for Steve. He nodded politely. 

“Steve. Tony,” Jake asked with his deep voice. He was wearing a red and black plaid shirt. (No wonder Steve liked him!) “What can I get you?” 

“I’d like a New Yorker,” Steve said. Tony sighed. Pepperoni again?

“And I’ll have the Californian. And, hey, could you have them toss some arugula on those, just to annoy Steve?”

“Tony!” 

Jake looked like he couldn’t decide if he should be annoyed on Steve’s behalf or amused by Tony’s teasing. He raised an eyebrow. “If you want arugula, you have to order the Rustica.”

“Nah, I’m just playing. ‘As is’ is fine. And the Malbec again.” 

“You got it.” Jake nodded and left. 

“Oh, honestly, Tony,” Steve said with affectionate exasperation.

“Come on! Jake thinks I’m funny! And, hey, don’t I get to tease you a little?”

And, oh fuck, there it was—Steve’s shy, sweet little smile, with his head tilted down, the intimate one he only gave to Tony. “Yeah,” Steve said softly. “Yeah, you do.” He reached out to squeeze Tony’s hand and let it linger there for a few moments before pulling away and saying, “So, phasers on stun, huh?” 

Tony took a moment to catch his breath again. He swallowed. “Yeah, but just so we’re clear, I’d rather hear you telling me to ‘use the force’ than put ‘phasers on stun’ because as we know _Star Wars_ is superior to _Star Trek_.” 

“Oh, now I know you’re spoiling for a fight!” Steve exclaimed jokingly. He took a sip of his beer and hummed in satisfaction. 

“How can you like _Star_ _Trek_ better than _Star Wars_!?” Tony cried. “And the Original Series too. _Star Wars_ is the pinnacle of cinematic achievement!” Tony shook his head then added with a grimace, “But not the new _Star Wars_. I’m not talking about those. Those were crap.” 

Steve waved his hands. “They’re a team, Tony! And, okay, at first McCoy and Spock don’t get along, ‘cause they’re so different, but they eventually figure things out. They’d all lay on the wire for each other or for the good of the Enterprise! And, even in the little things, they take care of each other. They work together!”

Tony groaned. “I really shouldn’t have started this, should I? You’re never going to change my mind, you know. Really I should blame myself—I thought showing you hokey old _Star Trek_ episodes first would give you a baseline of comparison for the superior awesome of _Star Wars_. But, you’re like a duckling—you imprinted on your first sci-fi.”

“Also!” Steve added triumphantly, completely ignoring Tony’s little speech. “George Takei was the only Asian American on television! It wasn’t that long before that we’d illegally imprisoned our own Japanese citizens, including Takei when he was a child.” Steve waved his hands, his voice getting louder in his excitement. “And Nichelle Nichols was the only African American actress on television then who wasn’t playing a maid. Just because I missed the whole Civil Rights Movement doesn’t mean I don’t care about how things happened. That was a big deal!” 

Tony stared at him. “Ah,” Steve looked sheepish for a second, then added, “I looked it up.”

Tony laughed. “Okay, fine. I get it. Teamwork! Social justice! Idealism! Right up your alley.” Tony took a bite of breadstick. “Guess I can’t argue with that.” 

Steve looked at him for a long moment, then added, deadpan: “Also, Han Solo’s kind of a dick.” 

Tony squawked and his jaw dropped. (Yeah, ick— should have swallowed first.) And Steve was looking at him with his ‘trying to suppress my grin and mostly failing’ look. 

(I fucking love you.)

“Prepare to do battle!” Tony declared, waving half a breadstick at him. Steve grinned. 

As the evening wore on, their usual teasing banter gave way to a comfortable quiet, both of them nibbling the last of their pizza and savoring their drinks. (Seriously, should order a case of that Malbec. Terra Rosa? Never heard of it, but damn it’s good.) Little by little, Steve had scooted closer and closer, sitting caddy-corner again. He kept giving Tony his intimate little smile. He looked _happy_.

On the speakers, The Stars gave way to the rough tones of Edith Piaf; Steve reached out to rest his hand on Tony’s knee under the table. His smile turned a little shy, but he didn’t move. Tony reached down to cover Steve’s hand with his own, caressing it lightly with his thumb. Steve was just smiling at him, gazing into his eyes, earnest and loving and Tony suddenly found it hard to breath. Steve turned his palm up and laced their fingers together.

“Hey!”

Tony startled and Steve jerked back suddenly, glancing around. 

“Hey,” Jake yelled again from behind the bar. “You with the iphone. Read the sign. Put it way or get out of my bar.”

Startled, the girl on the other side of the restaurant hunched down, chastised, and put her phone back in her bag. Tony couldn’t tell if she’d actually been taking a picture of him and Steve or if they would have been the blurry background for her friends. Either way, Tony was tempted to salute Jake, but hated to draw any attention. 

“You okay?” Tony asked quietly. 

“Yes,” Steve said, his tone firm. “I’m fine.” Tony realized with a jolt of pleasure that Steve hadn’t let go of his hand. Tony watched patiently as Steve took long, steady breaths, his posture relaxing again little by little. Tony wanted to reach out and touch his cheek, pull him close and kiss him, but he was hardly going to make the same mistake twice. Tony squeezed his hand. Steve smiled and squeezed back.

“I’m not sure if you heard me properly earlier,” Steve said after a few quiet moments. “Thank you for the flowers. They’re beautiful.” 

“Ah, you’re welcome.” Tony chuckled. “Confession? I maybe changed my mind about them a few times after they arrived. I mean, roses—kinda clichéd, wasn’t sure you’d like them, sorta predictable. That kinda thing.”

Steve shook his head. “Tony, I loved them. And it wasn’t predictable.” He looked down at the table. “Nobody’s ever given me flowers before.” Steve gave a little shrug, then looked up and added, “It was nice.” Steve squeezed Tony’s hand.

Tony flailed about for a few seconds, looking for the right words, but Steve continued. 

“And I’m really glad we . . . talked . . . earlier,” Steve said. “It was—” He closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath. “ _—hard_ for me to talk about that, but I’m glad I did. I feel better and I’m glad you know. About the way I felt. Before.” Steve leaned closer, eyes wide and such a bright blue, “I don’t want there to be any secrets between us. Ever.” He dropped his head and looked up at Tony from under long lashes, his smile a little sheepish. “And I promise to read the books you give me. I—” he squeezed Tony’s hand. “I never want to worry you again.” 

Tony’s heart pounded and the need to pull Steve close, take him in his arms and kiss him, was nearly overwhelming.

Tony swallowed heavily. “Steve?”

“Mmm?”

“Did you have any plans for us after Piaci?”

Steve shook his head, the slightest hint of a blush on his cheeks. “No. I hoped we could—” he paused, dropping his eyes. “I thought I’d let you be in charge.”

(Fuck!)

“Yeah,” Tony breathed, then looked around urgently for Jake and the bill. “Let’s go!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay! Steve was a struggle for me here and then I was struck down with the most miserable stomach bug... If Tony gets hideously ill in a subsequent chapter, you'll know where my inspiration came from!
> 
> Thanks for your patience!


	5. Chapter 5

Steve forced himself to concentrate on the road, trying not to be distracted by the feel of Tony holding him tight, legs straddling the bike, groin pressed up flush with his ass. Steve’s cheeks heated inside his helmet, imagining Tony in the garage, pushing him down across the handlebars, ripping off his trousers. ( _“go on . . . spread your legs for me, baby”. . ._ ) Okay, deep calming breaths. (Concentrate on the road.)

As he pulled the bike into the Tower garage, Steve’s heart leapt. Maybe tonight would be the night?

When Steve killed the motor and started to take off his helmet, Tony reached around and grabbed his arms. 

“Don’t move,” Tony said, voice muffled by his helmet. “Stay just like that.” 

Steve froze and tensed. He could feel Tony shifting behind him, taking off his own helmet, and setting it aside. Tony unfastened the buckle under Steve’s chin and very carefully eased the helmet off over Steve’s head. Tony’s breath warmed his neck. Tony ran his fingers through Steve’s hair, massaging his scalp with a firm pressure-- it sent shivers down his spine and made him drop his head back, exposing his throat to Tony’s lips and teeth. 

“It was a good date, baby,” Tony murmured into his ear. Steve let out a pleased little hum. Tony kissed and nipped at his exposed neck. Tony’s hands stroked lower, pressing at the base of his skull for a few pleasurable moments before he looped his arms around Steve at his waist. Tony pressed closer and reached up to unclasp the collar of Steve’s motorcycle jacket, then slowly unzipped it, peeling the supple leather away from Steve’s chest. Tony reached inside to caress Steve through his shirt, then bit down on his neck and tweaked his nipples. Steve arched and gasped, pressing back against Tony’s body. The sound of Steve’s moans echoed loudly in the garage.

“Do you like that, sweetheart?” Tony asked quietly, kissing Steve’s neck. Tony’s goatee scratched lightly at the sensitive skin and Steve nearly whimpered as Tony stroked his hands down to caress Steve’s abs. “Do you?”

Steve nodded. He could feel Tony’s hard cock pressed up against him from behind. He felt desperate and wanton and ready to beg already, even here in the wide echoing expanse of the garage, where he was so horribly exposed. 

(But not really—JARVIS will warn us, we wouldn’t get caught . . . it’s okay . . .)

Tony’s arms tightened around him for a moment before he pulled away and said, “Let’s go up.” 

They hopped off the bike-- Tony so gracefully. Steve felt heavy and awkward in comparison, his body thrumming with anticipation. Tony grasped Steve’s left wrist in one hand, holding it hard with a not-quite painful pressure, as he guided Steve to the elevator. 

The elevator ride felt interminable. Steve wasn’t exactly sure what was happening, but Tony seemed content to touch him only at his wrist and Steve felt oddly unable to move. He wanted to slam Tony into the elevator wall—wanted Tony to slam _him_ into the wall—kissing passionately, rutting against each other, hard and frantic. Instead he stood very still, trying not to fidget under Tony’s considering gaze. It made Steve feel like an equation Tony was trying to solve, a schematic that wasn’t quite turning out as imagined. Steve focused on the pressure around his wrist and tried to let it ground him. 

At last, they reached the penthouse. Tony led him into his living room and sat them down on the couch. 

“Steve?” Tony said. “Do you want me to be in charge?”

Steve nodded, then added a quiet: “Please.” 

“All right. I want you to go in the bedroom and kneel on the floor. I want you to wait for me there while I take care of a few things. Okay?”

Steve nodded and started to get up, but Tony held him on the couch a moment longer as he added: “Steve, it may take me a little while. Maybe ten minutes. Maybe more, but don’t worry—I’m coming. If you get uncomfortable on the floor, I want you to lie down in the bed to wait for me. All right?” 

Tony seemed a little hesitant, so instead of nodding again, Steve answered, “All right, Tony.” 

Tony pressed a kiss to his forehead and smiled. “I’ll see you soon.” 

Steve walked to Tony’s bedroom and, after a moment of hesitation, removed his socks and shoes, but nothing else. (Tony didn’t say to strip. . .) Steve knelt beside the bed and waited. 

It had been a good date. Tony didn’t mind going back to Piaci at all. (“Looks like this is becoming our place, huh?” Tony’d said, smiling like it was a good thing.) The motorcycle ride was nice and Jake was still looking out for him. (Good man.) And Steve didn’t pull away! He’d held Tony’s hand and, sure it was under the table, but just because he wasn’t making a big scene about it didn’t mean it didn’t count. It did. 

And earlier, Tony had sent him flowers! Sure, it felt a little bit silly to be so elated by that, but . . . well, it was sweet. Steve didn’t care what Tony said about clichés—it was romantic. Roses were _classic_. 

Steve’s breath hitched. Maybe the roses meant Tony had something special in mind for tonight? (Oh God!) It was warm in the room, but Steve shivered. Maybe Tony was finally planning to fuck him? His cock grew hard; he squirmed and adjusted himself in his trousers. Steve’s thoughts were racing, barely lighting on one fantasy before whisking away to the next, but always Tony—inside him, above him, pinning him down.

Steve held his breath when he heard Tony’s soft footsteps in the hall. (Had it even been ten minutes?)

“Hey, gorgeous,” Tony called in that quiet, intimate voice the rest of the team never heard. (Mine!) Steve was tempted to turn around, but last time he’d been instructed to stay still, so he didn’t move. Tony dimmed the lights. He set a bottle, plate, and a small glass on the bedside table, then tossed a black bag onto the bed. 

“Come here,” Tony said, holding his arms open. Steve climbed to his feet and stepped into Tony’s embrace, accepting Tony’s warm kisses with pleasure. Tony tasted sweet, something rich and heady on his tongue. Steve pressed closer. Tony’s kisses turned rough and demanding, and his fingers dug hard into Steve’s neck and ass. Tony pulled and Steve felt his cheeks parting under his clothes. He gasped into Tony’s mouth, hands fisting helplessly in Tony’s sweater, wanting more, harder, deeper.

“Let go,” Tony said pulling back. Steve took a deep breath and forced his fingers to relax. He wanted to pull Tony close again, wanted to protest as Tony stepped away to sit on the bed, looking up at him. Steve stood, flushed and panting in the middle of the room. 

“What’s your safeword?”

Steve blinked. “Sheild.”

Tony rubbed his goatee and rolled his shoulders, eyes still fixed on Steve. Then he asked, “And what’s your safeword for?” 

“If I’m upset,” Steve mumbled, mind still a little hazy with arousal. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. This was important to Tony. He answered more decisively: “I use it to communicate distress to you quickly.” 

(So you don’t have to worry.) 

“That’s right.” Tony nodded. Then he gave Steve a wicked grin and lounged back on the bed. 

“Now strip.”

Steve stood frozen for a moment. His dropped his gaze and raised his hands uncertainly to his collar then lowered them to start with his cuffs, suddenly awkward. Was there a certain way he was supposed to do this? What did Tony expect? What if he--

“Babe, look at me,” Tony said. With a distant sort of surprise, Steve realized he found it hard to obey—to lift his eyes-- but was glad when he did. Tony was giving him that soft little smile again. 

“Sweetheart, you don’t have to do some sort of strip tease or put on some sort of performance. I just want to watch you take your clothes off. Because I told you to. Okay?”

Steve started on the buttons and, really, it was silly wasn’t it? (Tony has seen me naked. A lot. He loves my body. _Everyone_ loves this body.) There was absolutely nothing to be shy about. (And Tony just said he doesn’t expect some sort of _display_ —he just wants to see my body, see me obey. That’s good. Really good.)

As Steve finished unbuttoning his shirt, he looked up to see Tony, still reclining casually, that soft smile playing at the corner of his lips and his eyes half-lidded, heavy with lust. Steve pulled off his shirt and tossed it aside on the floor. He could feel his cheeks heating as he yanked his undershirt off over his head and tossed it away. He let his head fall, looked to the side and bit his lip, then heard Tony take a sharp breath, almost maybe a _gasp_. Steve peeked at him from under his lashes. Tony’s lips were parted, he was breathing heavily, and Steve could see the outline of Tony’s cock pressed against his trousers. 

(He likes it! He likes that I’m shy and awkward, that I bow my head and blush. He thinks it’s _hot_.)Steve felt an answering jolt of arousal and a deeper warmth of reassurance. (It’s good. Everything’s fine. . .)

Steve fumbled a little with his belt, bending his eyes to the carpet again, just listening to Tony breathe. He undid his trousers, let them fall to the floor, and then kicked them aside. His erection, which had flagged earlier in the face of his embarrassment, now jutted proudly from his body again. Steve shoved his boxers down his legs and added them to his messy pile of clothes. Unsure what to do now, Steve kept his head bowed, but the rest of his body eased into parade rest of its own accord. At least it gave him something to do with his hands, but putting them behind his back seemed to draw more attention to his cock. Then again, from the sound of Tony’s labored breathing, that was hardly a bad thing.

“Jesus. Look at you,” Tony said getting up to walk a slow circle around him. “You’re the pinnacle of masculine beauty.” Steve wanted to shrug off Tony’s praise. “You’re like a Michelangelo. You’d make his David weep. I mean, _your_ hands are in proportion!” At that, Steve couldn’t hold in a little snort of amusement. 

Tony made another little circuit around him, then stopped face to face, reaching to cup Steve’s cheek and smile up at him.

“But you know what I’ve always thought your most beautiful feature is?” Tony asked. 

Steve shook his head. 

“Your eyes,” Tony told him softly. “They’re the most stunning shade of blue, so wide and bright, and they’re always so full of emotion. It’s a cliché that the eyes are windows into our souls, but . . .” Tony shrugged and glanced away, almost awkward. When he looked back, Tony stared into Steve’s eyes and murmured, “so beautiful.” 

Steve’s breath hitched. Tony pulled him down for a kiss, slow and gentle, and Steve felt warm and content, more reassured than he’d imagined. (My eyes. Thank you. I’m glad. They’re _my_ eyes.) Tony wrapped his arms around Steve, pulling him close, then shuffling them backward towards the bed. 

“Come here,” Tony murmured, pulling Steve down so they were partially propped up by the pillows at the headboard. Tony reached out to pour a glass of something thick and sweet-smelling. 

“We skipped dessert at Piaci, so I thought I’d serve it here.” Tony took a little sip from the elegant blown glass, closed his eyes for a moment to savor it, then brought the cup to Steve’s lips.

The drink was sweet and heavy on Steve’s tongue, like honey and ripe fruit, the flavor lingering after he’d swallowed. Steve licked his lips. Tony smiled and reached over to the plate, then offered Steve a small piece of dark chocolate. He let it melt on his tongue, the taste mingling deliciously with the drink. 

“Mmmm,” Steve murmured.

“I thought you’d like that,” Tony said, pressing his fully clad body up against Steve’s naked one. “Port and chocolate. Classic combination.” Tony took another sip, then tipped the glass for Steve again before setting it aside.

Tony ran his hand down Steve’s side, across his ribs to his hip, then back up across his stomach and over his chest to his shoulders. He shifted closer, settling half on top of Steve. Steve reached up to caress Tony’s back, inwardly lamenting the sweater. Tony rubbed his cheek against Steve’s, goatee scratching pleasurably at his skin. Then Tony licked at his lips and Steve opened eagerly for him. Tony’s tongue tasted like chocolate, his mouth like port—sweet and intoxicating.

Tony kissed him—tongue exploring his mouth, slow and languorous, sucking his bottom lip then nipping at it with his teeth. Tony kissed him until he was breathless, then pulled away, leaving Steve panting, lips glistening and kiss-swollen. Tony tipped the glass to give him another sip of port, then pressed their mouths together again, one hand clutching at Steve’s neck, his hair, the other hand roaming across his shoulders, his chest, his side, his hip. Steve’s clutched at Tony’s sweater, little gasps and moans falling from his mouth. It was harder and harder to keep still. Steve wanted so badly to pull Tony’s clothes off, press his aching cock against Tony’s hip, and _beg_ Tony to fuck him. 

Tony kissed and caressed him for ages, pausing occasionally to share more port and chocolate. Steve lost himself in sensual pleasure. They’d never just laid down and kissed for so long, on and on. Steve shivered, soaking it all in, but desperate for more. He let out a long, loud moan, clutching at Tony helplessly. 

And finally— _finally_ — Tony pulled away to look at him, pupils blown, eyes heavy with lust. 

“What do you want, baby?” Tony whispered, caressing Steve’s face with light fingertips.

Steve’s head was spinning. 

“Please, Tony. Let me touch you,” Steve whispered. “I want to make you feel good.” Now Tony’s thumb was stroking that spot, where his jaw met his throat, the spot that drove him crazy. Steve added roughly, “I’ll be so good for you . . . make it so good. Please?”

Tony pulled away and stood. Steve almost let out a whine, but then Tony said:. “Undress me.” 

“Yes,” Steve breathed. “Yes.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave you there . . . Well, okay, not that sorry. :-) 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the foreplay!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day! I made you porn. :-)

Steve wanted to rip Tony’s clothes off, but Tony had been moving so slowly, so sensually—he tried to keep the same tempo. Slowly, he pulled Tony’s sweater and T-shirt off as Tony obligingly raised his arms. He kissed his way from Tony’s neck down to his wrist on his right, then on his left. He ran his hands across Tony’s shoulders, his chest, the arc reactor. He kissed Tony deeply and caressed his shoulder blades for a while. Eager but trying not to rush, Steve pulled away to carefully unzip Tony’s trousers. Steve slid Tony’s trousers and underwear down his legs, turning it into a caress. Steve dropped to his knees. 

Somehow, Steve felt like he needed permission to touch Tony’s cock (can’t explain it, doesn’t make sense. . .), but the rest of Tony seemed more approachable. Steve caressed and squeezed Tony’s ass in his large hands. He rubbed his cheek against Tony’s thigh and hip bone, the scent of Tony’s arousal heavy in the air. Tony reached down to run his fingers lightly through Steve’s hair. 

“Look at me, baby,” Tony ordered, voice quiet. Steve tipped his head back to meet Tony’s eyes. “Beautiful,” Tony murmured. 

Tony stepped away to drape himself off the edge of the bed, then spread his knees wide and pointed to the space between them at his feet. It was only a few steps, hardly worth standing up, so Steve crawled on his hands and knees. Tony gasped.

“Oh fuck.” 

Tony was giving him _that look_ , the one Steve desperately wanted to preserve on canvas. Steve’s cock throbbed, hot and heavy between his legs as he moved. On a sudden instinct that made him blush with shame-pleasure-embarrassment, Steve dropped lower to the floor, crossed his hands behind his back, and kissed Tony’s foot. Tony let out a startled gasp Steve turned his head to rub his cheek against Tony’s foot, nuzzling against it and breathing heavily. Tony moaned.

“Fuck! Oh fuck, Steve,” Tony gasped, then dropped his voice to growl. “Stay there. Stay just. Like. That.”

Steve took deep, even breaths and kept his cheek pressed against Tony’s foot. Bent over like this, with his hands behind his back and his shoulder to the floor, his back was arched in a gentle curve, his ass sticking up-- exposed. It made Steve want to spread his legs and beg Tony to fuck him, but Tony’d told him not to move so he wouldn’t. He swallowed thickly. 

Steve could hear Tony breathing heavily and moving a little on the bed. He wanted to look up, but didn’t want to move, disobey. He could still smell Tony’s arousal more clearly, heavy and musky. 

“You’re beautiful like that,” Tony said roughly. “Perfect. Fuck!” 

Tony gasped again and with a jolt Steve finally recognized those noises: Tony was touching himself. Tony was stroking his cock while looking at Steve prostrate at his feet. Steve shivered.

“Do you have any idea what you look like?” Tony asked. Steve felt helpless in his own lust, unable to move. He let out a little moan and heard Tony’s movements speed up. He was panting with each stroke. 

“Fuck! Steve, come here,” Tony finally ordered and Steve slid closer, kneeling up. “Take my cock, baby. Go on, suck me off.” 

A jolt of embarrassed pleasure coursed through Steve at Tony’s coarse words. His lips parted eagerly as Tony guided his leaking cock into Steve’s mouth. Steve caressed Tony’s dick with his tongue, hollowed his cheeks, and _sucked_. Tony threw his head back. 

“Shit! Not gonna last,” he panted. “You’re so good, baby.” 

Steve bobbed his head, sliding his mouth up and down Tony’s dick, loving the feel and taste of it in his mouth, against his tongue.

“Look at you. You fucking love it, don’t you? Love sucking my cock, love being on your knees.” 

Steve moaned around Tony’s dick and pulled back to lavish attention on the head, circling it with his tongue, then sucking and caressing it with his lips. Tony cried out. He grabbed Steve’s head and thrust with his hips, forcing his cock deep into Steve’s mouth again. 

“Oh yeah. Like that, baby. You wanna take it, don’t you?” 

Tony curled his fingers in Steve’s hair and moved Steve’s head up and down his cock, fucking his mouth. Steve was so turned on he nearly forgot to breathe. 

“Fuck! You want it, don’t you? Wanna swallow my come?” 

(Yes, fuck. Yes!) Steve moaned, the sound muffled by Tony’s cock. 

Tony gave a last little thrust with his hips and held Steve’s head in place, then he cried out and flooded Steve’s mouth with cum. Steve swallowed around Tony’s dick, thrilled by it all: the hot rush of come in his mouth; the sound of Tony’s orgasm; the sight of him shivering with aftershocks. Steve caressed his sensitized cock gently with his tongue. 

“Oh God, come here,” Tony moaned, pulling at Steve’s hair. Steve scrambled onto the bed, graceless in his haste. 

Tony pressed up against him, kissing him, thrusting his tongue into Steve’s mouth. Tony reached down, finally touching Steve’s aching erection. His hips bucked off the bed and he whimpered into Tony’s mouth. 

“Oh yeah,” Tony murmured. “You want it so bad, don’t you?” He closed his hand around Steve’s cock and gave it a long, firm stroke. “Shhhh, baby. I’ll take care of you.” 

(God, yes. _Please_!) 

He nearly whined in disappointment when Tony let go of his cock, but then he moved his hand lower to fondle Steve’s balls. Steve’s breath caught. He spread his legs, desperate and willing to beg, but not quite finding the words. ( _Please, please, please . . ._ ) He clutched at Tony’s shoulder and hid his face with his arm. Steve held his breath-- he tilted his hips and drew his knees up towards his chest in silent invitation. 

“Oh, fuck,” Tony mumbled. Steve could hear him rummaging around in the black bag and then the familiar sound of a plastic cap flicking open. Steve’s heart leapt. 

(Fuck me, please, please, please. . . )

Tony caressed Steve’s thighs, ran teasing fingers across his erection, then brought a slick finger to Steve’s crack. (Please, please, please . . .) Steve uncovered his face to stare at Tony, unsure what to do with his hands. The arc reactor glowed, beautiful and brilliant, in Tony’s chest; it lit his features from below, casting shadows across his face in the dim bedroom. (Beautiful.) 

“Come on, baby,” Tony said, rubbing little circles at Steve’s entrance. “You have to breathe, remember?”

Steve took a deep gasping breath and tried to relax. He shivered. 

“Are you cold?” Tony asked, drawing closer. Steve shook his head and Tony smiled, looking smug. Steve leaned up eagerly and crushed his mouth to Tony’s. The kiss was rough and urgent, a counterpoint to Tony’s unhurried, gentle caresses between his legs. Steve kissed Tony desperately, open-mouthed and demanding. Little by little, Tony gentled their kiss and pulled back. 

“What do you want, sweetheart?” Tony asked. His slick finger went still, a light pressure at Steve’s entrance.

“ _You_ ,” Steve panted, “inside me. Oh god, please, Tony!” 

Tony didn’t make him wait any longer. Steve’s body yielded readily for Tony’s slim finger and, unthinking, Steve bucked up into it, wanting more, harder, faster. Steve licked his lips. 

“Tony?” he whispered, short of breath. His whole body was hot and tingling, his heart pounding. “Please? More. I’m—” Steve shuddered. “More?” 

“Soon,” Tony promised. Steve nodded then let out a little whimper as Tony touched _that place_ inside him. 

“You make the most beautiful noises, Steve,” Tony murmured, eyes fixed intently on Steve’s face. Steve stared back at him wide-eyed, captivated. Tony drew his finger out, then pressed in to touch that place again. 

“Ah!” 

Tony gave him a wicked grin, then leaned forward to kiss him, pressing his lips to Steve’s forehead, his cheek, his lips, his jaw. Tony was thrusting his finger into Steve in a slow steady rhythm that made him keen for more. In and out, in and out. Steve clenched the bedsheets in fists.

“Please?” Steve whispered. “Tony, please?”

Steve gasped at the feel of Tony pressing a second finger against his rim, teasing him with it for a moment before pressing inside. As Tony worked his second finger in, Steve felt a marvelously vivid sort of ache. He threaded his fingers through Tony’s hair, wanting something to anchor him, something to do with his hands. He pulled Tony down for a kiss. This wasn’t like last time— the floating, there-not-there, held-everywhere feeling—but it was good, so good to have Tony’s fingers in his body, his tongue in his mouth, all hot and urgent and tremendously present. Steve moaned.

Tony tore his mouth away from Steve’s and turned to bite down on the tender spot where his neck met his shoulder. Steve cried out as Tony nipped and sucked at it. (It’s going to bruise. . . He’s leaving a mark!) A fresh wave of arousal swept through him and Steve let out a hoarse moan. Tony thrust his fingers in a little harder. 

“Is that good, sweetheart?” Tony murmured huskily into Steve’s ear, breath warm and sweet. 

“Yes!” Another thrust and Steve rocked back to meet it. Tony spread his fingers a little as he pulled back, then pressed in again curling his fingers to hit _that spot_. “Ah! Tony, _please_. . .”

Tony’s fingers were wonderful and relentless, caressing that spot over and over, making Steve jerk and shudder. Steve’s balls felt tight and heavy, his whole body pulsing with anticipation. He was so close . . . (Am I supposed to ask? Always?) Another hard thrust-- he cried out.

“Ah! Tony! Tony, I’m almost—” Steve bit his lip. “Please, I want--” He couldn’t quite get the words out. 

“Do you want to come?” Tony asked, voice rough. “Are you asking permission?”

  
Steve nodded frantically.

“You’re beautiful when you come,” Tony said. “Go ahead, baby. Let yourself go. I want to see it.”

(Yes, yes, yes…)

Steve panted and pressed back urgently against Tony’s fingers. It was _almost_ enough. Tony kissed him hard and fast, then took Steve’s aching erection in hand. Steve arched off the bed as Tony thrust his fingers in time to the firm strokes on his cock. One, two, three—Steve cried out and went rigid. He saw stars as he spurted across his stomach in a hot rush of glorious pleasure, Tony stroking and finger fucking him through wave after wave. 

Steve was still trying to catch his breath, shaking and shuddering, when Tony shuffled down the bed and bent to lick the mess gently from Steve’s cock. 

“Oh God!” 

The swipes of Tony’s tongue were soft but overwhelming on his over-sensitive cock. Steve shivered and stared. The sight of Tony’s pink tongue lapping at his come seemed almost to filthy-beautiful to be real. When Tony eased his fingers slowly from Steve’s body, it left a strange open, empty feeling that filled him with longing. 

“You’re amazing,” Tony murmured to him, pressing a kiss to his inner thigh. “Here, let me take care of you. Give me a second.” 

Tony disappeared into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a warm washcloth and a glass of water. He wiped the last of Steve’s come from his belly and the lube from his ass, then tossed the towel aside and settled into bed next to him. Tony pulled the covers up around them both and Steve let out a little sigh of contentment as he nestled close to Tony. 

“You’re so wonderful, Steve,” Tony murmured, caressing his neck and shoulders and leaving little kisses in Steve’s hair. “I’m so fucking lucky to have you.” 

Steve smiled and shifted up for a kiss. “I’m really lucky too,” Steve told him, looking into his eyes and willing Tony to see, to understand how deeply he was loved. 

(I thank God for you every day. You’re my miracle.) 

“I love you,” Steve said.

Tony blinked and swallowed; he clutched Steve a little closer. 

“I love you too.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's day, everybody! Hope you liked it!
> 
> Next up, Tony & Pepper's luncheon...


	7. Chapter 7

Marseilles was the same as always—immaculate black and white décor and equally immaculate diners awash with sunlight while the fine china and crystal tinkled all around them. It sort of made Tony want to knock something over. Or set off his alarm and let “Back in Black” scream from his Stark phone. 

Pepper was already seated, looking stunning in a sharp blue suit. (Vera Wang?) Tony checked his watch as he approached.

“I’m not late, you’re early,” he said, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek. She was wearing new perfume, not the Oscar de la Renta that had always said “Pepper” to him. Before. (Huh. That’s actually a relief.) 

“Look. See?” He tilted his watch towards her as he took a seat. “On time.”

“And note my astonishment,” Pepper said smiling. “It’s good to see you, Tony.” 

“You too, Pep.” 

“And thank you for dealing with the cell phone situation. You know I hate it when you skimp on eating and sleeping, but, well—” She looked apologetic. “I’m glad you could get it sorted so quickly.” Pepper grimaced. “I can’t believe they tried to cover up the malfunction! I could have brought in the big guns earlier if they’d said something instead of just flailing around thinking it would sort itself out at the last minute.” She shook her head. 

“Please tell me you dealt with those idiots.” Tony rolled his eyes. “Turning things off then back on again three times can’t fix a design flaw. And anyone who works in R&D and thinks it can needs to be fired.”

“Let’s just say some talents have been reallocated.” 

Tony snorted. They turned their attention to the menus. A waiter—stealthy and unobtrusive as a ninja—appeared as soon as they’d decided, took their orders, and vanished. (The motto of Marseilles seemed to be: our staff should be neither seen nor heard; if you notice them, they’re doing it wrong.)

“So,” Pepper said, arching a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?” Tony asked and examined the silver. “Going on? Nothing!” He glanced up again. “And stop giving me that look. You know, you treat me like a naughty schoolboy on a regular basis. And not in a sexy roleplay kinda way. What’s up with that anyhow?”

“Tony,” Pepper said, her voice chiding. 

“See! There it is again, the look and that ‘I could take you over my knee and spank you’ voice. Do you use that on the board of directors? Is that your secret to running Stark Industries?”

Pepper rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Tony, you know you can’t distract me like that. And you don’t even want to, so why do you bother trying?”

“Like what? From what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” 

Pepper snorted. “The shoes. The flowers. Yes, I know they were intended as a thank you and I appreciate that, even if I’m not exactly sure what it is you’re thanking me for, but they’re also an invitation to talk. You wouldn’t have included the note like that if you didn’t want to talk about it. So,”-- Pepper took a sip of her wine and gave him a little smile-- “you can ramble as long as you like, but I’m going to keep asking you what’s going on. Because I know that under all your bluster you want to tell me and I want to listen.” A pause. “Because I care about you.” 

(Oh fuck. Fucking feelings.)

“Damn,” Tony mumbled into his glass. “You know what I’m doing and why even when I don’t know what I’m doing or why. That’s more than a little terrifying, you know, Ms. Potts.” 

She smiled. “So I’ve been told, Mr. Stark.” 

“Yeah,” Tony said, giving her a rueful smile and rubbing the back of his neck. He took a sip of wine. (Bleh. Too sweet for a sauvignon blanc.) He took another sip. (Oh, hm. Better.) He took a breath. 

“Look, Pepper, there’s, uh, something I should tell you. Er, should have told you earlier really. I mean, the team already knows. I should have told you sooner—it’s just all been so sudden! I—I’m seeing someone.”

Pepper blinked and Tony worried that he saw some sort of emotion flash across her face—hurt, regret, jealousy, concern, _something_ —but it was all in his head and her look was actually just friendly interest. Maybe. Probably. He hoped.

Pepper waited a moment before giving Tony a little smile and prompting, “So, who is she? Do I know her?” 

“Uh, _he_ actually,” Tony corrected. Pepper shrugged. “And, yes, you definitely know him.” Tony paused to gather his courage—and seriously, why should this be hard? 

Pepper gasped, mouth dropping open in shock for a moment, before she grinned and reached across the table.

“Oh my god!” Pepper squeezed his hand. “I’m so happy for you! I thought you’d be magnificent together, but I had always thought he was straight so I never said anything or asked you about it because, well, what would the point have been, but I--” Pepper floundered, but in an enthusiastic flailing sort of way. Tony found himself baffled by her enthusiasm but more pleased and touched by it than he could have imagined. 

“So tell me!” Pepper clamored actually bouncing a little in her seat. “How did it happen?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” Tony gave her a wide, baffled grin, swept up in her enthusiasm. “I was just teasing him and then out of nowhere we were having this serious conversation and suddenly—” (Shit! Don’t say too much. You promised the kinky stuff’s private.) “—suddenly, Steve was saying he’s gay and he—” (-- _loves me_. No—don’t say it.) “—has feelings, _has had_ feelings for me for ages and—”

“Steve?” Pepper interrupted her face oddly blank. “Steve _Rogers_?” 

Tony gave Pepper a blank look of his own. 

“Yeah, of course, Steve Rogers.” They sat, staring stupidly at each other over the lavishly arranged table. “Wait, who did you think--?!?”

Pepper looked down at her lap, seeming sad. “It doesn’t matter. I’m sorry I leapt to conclusions. So, uh, you were teasing him and—“

“No, really—I want to know. Who did you think I meant?”

“Tony,” Pepper sounded disappointed and exasperated. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Humor me.”

“I usually do,” Pepper said with a wry smile, but something was grating at Tony’s nerves, harsh and raw and he had a hard time smiling back. 

“Please, Pep? Just tell me.” He’d said it quietly, seriously, and knew he’d won when she bit her lip. 

“Bruce,” she said quietly and Tony really should have known, shouldn’t have been surprised, but he was. He really was. 

“Bruce?” Tony repeated. “What made you think _Bruce_?”

“It really doesn’t matter, Tony. I’m truly sorry that I got ahead of myself and leapt to conclusions instead of just listening to your news like I meant to.” It was strange, so strange, to see Pepper so wrong-footed. 

“So, go on,” she continued. “Tell me. About Steve.” The name sounded awkward on her tongue. “I really do want to hear.” And Pepper was smiling at him, but the contrast was too marked. It was her boardroom smile. Everything felt sour in Tony’s stomach. 

“Yeah, so, Steve and I are together now. For the past, I dunno, almost two weeks.” Tony took a sip of wine, trying to savor it. He breathed out slowly but, nope, couldn’t let it go. “Why Bruce?”

Pepper sighed and leaned back in her chair. She set her glass down. “Fine. I just—you two seemed to click on a level I’ve never seen you click with anyone. When Bruce moved in and we were—“ she swallowed, “when there were just the three of us in the Tower, I’d come down to the lab and you would be working on something together and you looked so happy, speaking science to each other in your own little world.” Pepper gave a little shrug. “I had no idea you and the Captain had become so close.”

Tony’s face twisted. “Yeah well, you haven’t really been around much lately, have you?” Hurt flashed across Pepper’s face and Tony’s guts clenched. 

“Pep, I’m sorry! I—”

“No, you’re right,” Pepper said with a thin smile. “I’m sorry. Of course—of course things have changed in the Tower. I just— Never mind.” Pepper took a deep breath, visibly putting the ghosts of their past back in a drawer as best she could. 

She asked with a teasing smile, “Come on, Tony, why are we acting so glum?” She quickly cut him off when he started to answer. “That’s rhetorical! Don’t smart ass me. Really, we should be celebrating. So go on—” she leaned forward across the table, “--give me the gossip. Tell me about Steve.”

Tony shrugged, unable to summon any of his former enthusiasm. “He’s Steve; you’ve met him.” 

Tony glanced around the restaurant. (Nobody can hear us, right? Right. One upside of Marseilles—the tables are miles apart.)

“Yes, I’ve met him, but I don’t really know him.” Something about Pepper’s tone was _off_ somehow, but Tony couldn’t figure it out. Tony took a sip of his wine. “I know he’s Captain America.” She said it like the idea weighed heavily on her. Like that should mean something to Tony beyond the obvious. 

“Yeah,” Tony agreed, tone flat. 

Tony was struggling to push his unhappy, jumbled thoughts away. (So, what? I should be with Bruce because I can’t actually relate to anyone who isn’t a science genius? Is that it? Well, you’re not wrong I guess . . . I suck at normal people. But I pretty much suck at people full stop really.) Tony spun his brass rat on his finger; MIT should pay him royalties for wearing the damn thing all the time—free marketing, woo-hoo. (So, Steve’s Captain America. So what? Yeah, he’s basically everyone’s ideal and too good for me. You were too.) Pepper was fingering her bracelet absently; it wasn’t one Tony had given her. She raised her eyebrows and waited. (Steve, he’s so young, so inexperienced—shit, you can guess that just looking at his earnest expression, blushing face, and he’s from the ‘40s, so really-- but I’m trying to do things right. I am. So, what, you think I’ll fuck him up? But Bruce could take care of himself?) 

They both reached for their wine at the same moment. Tony drained his all at once, mind still racing. (You know I wouldn’t use him, right? He’s not some nameless fuck to fill an empty place in my bed—and I never deceived anybody. Casual sex is casual sex—no room for confusion. I told you: _we’re together_. I’m trying.) Pepper was looking more and more worried. (Really, Steve’s so brave and honest and just _good_ down to his core, exactly as advertised. Is that it? I don’t deserve him?) Tony flagged down a waiter and ordered another glass of wine with instructions to keep ‘em coming. Pepper frowned at him.

“So,” Pepper said, trying again. “Steve told you he’s gay and then--?” 

“Look,” Tony said, curtly. “Let’s not do this.” 

Pepper’s face tightened with hurt and frustration, that expression all too familiar. She threw up her hands. “Tony, five minutes ago you were excited to tell me all about it! And--”

“Well, that was then, this is now.” 

“-- I’m _sorry_ , truly I am, about jumping to the wrong conclusion, but if Steve makes you happy then I’m happy for you and I want to hear anything you want to tell me.” 

Tony shrugged it off. “Bla bla. He’s great, we’re great, everything’s great. So, Stark Industries? How’re we doing post cell phone shit storm? Come on, how’s my baby?”

“Tony. . .” Pepper used her warning voice. 

“Fine, I guess SI’s _your_ baby now.” Tony finished and moved on to his next glass of wine, finishing half in one long drink.

“Tony.”

“Yes, Ms Potts?” Shields at maximum, Tony gave her his best playboy grin.

Pepper sighed and Tony couldn’t tell if she was more resigned or exasperated (and surely the ability to be both at once is a real marvel). 

“The stock is still in a slump, but once they hit market it should get a major bump. The pre-orders alone have . . . ”

***

“Hi Steve,” Bruce said as he entered the kitchen. “Back from SHIELD already?”

Steve shrugged. “Yeah. It’s like they don’t want to risk overexposure.” Steve took another bite of ham sandwich and watched Bruce rummage through the fridge. 

“Would you want to be there more?” Bruce asked. Bruce took out last night’s curried lentils and put them in the microwave oven. 

Steve shrugged, “I really like teaching, especially the cadets, but it’s hard to be effective in a isolation like that. If they only want me to be some sort of special guest lecturer, it’s hard to build relationships. And so much of this stuff is about trust, you know?” Bruce nodded and Steve took a long gulp of milk and set his sandwich down. 

“I’ve been thinking about it, though,” Steve confessed. “I mean, at first all this unstructured time was probably necessary. It took me a long time to--” he hunted for the right words, “get comfortable here. And a lot of work—reading, catching up—before I could start to, uh, to adjust.” (There’s no shame admitting it was hard to adjust.)

“Of course,” Bruce agreed. (Exactly. See? No shame.) Bruce took the lentils out and poked them with his finger before putting them in for a few more minutes. 

“Now though,” Steve continued, “I seem to have more time than I need. I mean, it was nice at first but I can’t quite shake the feeling I’m being a kind of . . . idle.” 

“I’d hardly say that, Steve,” Bruce said.

Steve shrugged. “Maybe. We haven’t been called out as much lately, and, I mean, some free time is nice, I’m just not used to this much of it. I’ve been drawing quite a bit, but that seems--” (-- selfish.) “Maybe I could do more training for them, actually work with a class from start to finish. There are plenty of things I still need to learn too. I don’t know. Just feels odd to be at loose ends so much when there are so many things I’d like to do and so many ways I could be helping.”

Steve turned his attention back to his sandwich, feeling like he’d said more than he meant to already, not wanting to continue, embarrassed to confess what he'd been considering. Especially to Bruce-- he was like Tony, probably had five PhDs. . . (I’ve been thinking about University . . . If I’d made it home back _then_ , I could have gone to school on the GI Bill.) Steve sighed. (But that’s probably selfish too.) 

Bruce sat down next to him, steam rising thickly from his bowl. 

“Wanna know what I think?” 

Steve smiled. “Of course.” 

“If there are other things you want to be doing, you should do them, but if it’s just guilt—well,” Bruce spread his hands and shrugged. “We’re on call twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. That can take a toll. Sometimes we’re only needed for a few hours or a few days, but now and then it’s a couple of weeks, like that time in Iowa. Makes it a little hard to take on another set of full time duties, unless you’re free to drop them for Avengers business.” Bruce stirred the lentils sending more steam rising up from the bowl. “And, well, after everything you’ve done—everything you’ve been through, I think you deserve a bit of a break and time to draw if that’s what you want. Just a thought.” 

“Thank you, Bruce,” Steve said his voice going a little thick. Somehow Bruce always managed to make him feel better. “I really appreciate your—”

A small ‘ping’ chimed from Bruce’s pocket. 

“—advice.”

Bruce looked at Steve apologetically. “Ah. Timer. Best get back to the lab.” He picked up his bowl. “I’ll finish this in there.” He glanced around as if just noticing something. “Tony skipping lunch again?”

Steve shook his head and gave an amused little snort. “Nope. Business lunch. Stark Industries something. So he’d better not forget to eat!” 

“Oh, well. Would you send him my way once he gets back?”

“I would be happy to alert you of Mr. Stark’s return, Dr. Banner,” JARVIS volunteered. 

“Oh, right. Yes. Sure, JARVIS, thank you.” Bruce shrugged at Steve. “Science stuff.” 

Steve smiled. “Of course.”

Bruce headed towards the elevator, but after a few steps Steve added, “Hey, and Bruce? Thanks. For the advice.”

***

Tony and Pepper stood silently in front of Marseilles waiting for their respective drivers, Tony swaying slightly on his feet. He wondered if the vibrant yellow, four inch pumps she was wearing had been part of the bouquet. Somehow, he was in no mood to ask. 

“It was good to see you, Tony,” Pepper said. “I’m in town for a few more days. Then it’s DC, Chicago, San Francisco before I’m back to LA.” 

Tony nodded. 

“So, let’s get drinks before I go. Or dinner?”

“Sure. Yeah,” Tony said. “Sounds great.”

Pepper leaned forward to give him one of those awkward upper-body hugs. She drew away quickly and paused. “Tony?” she asked softly. Oh. That wasn’t her car after all. 

“Mmm?” He’d already returned to the workshop in his mind, trying to decide what needed his attention most. 

“I’m really glad about Steve. I am. But . . .” Pepper laid a hand gently on his arm, drawing his focus. “What were you thanking me for? You never did say.” 

“Oh. Right.” Tony swallowed. He glanced over at Pep—all curiosity, concern, and affection—then turned away. “Well, I needed to talk to Steve about something important, really _talk_ , and it actually went well. And I realized that I— You had—”

(Great. Can’t get a sentence out—that’s how awesome you made me at communicating.) 

“Oh, Tony,” Pepper said. Her voice sounded like heartbreak. He turned to look at her, and found her giving him this watery, wide-eyed stare that made him ache all over. She leaned down slowly to kiss him on the forehead. (Seriously, why was everyone so damn tall?) 

And there was her car. She stepped away, then paused to ask, “You know I wish you all the best, right?”

Tony nodded, but the formulaic words hurt. “Yeah.”

She nodded, then opened the door and stepped inside. “I’ll see you soon, Tony,” she added through the open window.

“Later, Pep.” 

He turned away. He needed to get back to his workshop.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote Pepper & Tony's conversation ages ago and was really eager to post it! Also, posting a new chapter so soon in honor of "Permission to Surrender" crossing the 400 kudos mark and "Surrender" being just 2 away from 450. I'm so excited and honored! 
> 
> And, as always, thanks so much for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

Tony leaned against the elevator wall as he rode up to the workshop.

Well, that turned out to be fucking awkward. And things had been going so well with Pepper lately! Not like _before_ , but good-- really good. 

(Well fuck. So not thinking about this shit now.)

It was pleasantly crisp in the workshop—too much food or warmth made him sluggish. Tony tossed his suit jacket over a stool and grabbed a hoodie from the workbench.

“Hey, JARVIS. Pull up schematics for Project 2231.”

“Yes, sir.” 

The modifications on Natasha’s Bite had been going well—just a little more work on the plans and he could start safely putting together the prototype. Probably.

Tony frowned. He and Pepper had actually started hanging out again. Not lots—Pepper wasn’t in New York lots—but some and it had been pretty awesome. (Which was an amazing shitload of progress from last year’s “every time I look at you it hurts and I can’t stop seeing the way you recoiled from my ring and hearing you say ‘ _Tony, I just can’t . . .’_ ”. That was a crappy phase.) 

Tony sat and stared: equations and diagrams, rigorously ordered, direct. They still weren’t quite right. He wanted to do something with his hands, but he really should wait just a little longer since he’d had . . . how many glasses of wine? Dummy wheeled over to nudge his leg. Tony sighed and settled for petting his bot, scanning his work for errors.

Judging from her first response, Pepper was well and truly over him, right? (Which is good. Really.) Pepper just wasn’t happy about _Steve_. She ‘wished him all the best.’ (“I know he’s *Captain America.*”) Tony shook his head. 

It was odd. Bruce was a great guy and, sure, he’d flirted with Bruce a little just for fun. Tony did that with everyone though. He’d never actually been interested in Bruce sexually and he was pretty damn sure Bruce was straight anyway. So what was it . . . Was it that they were both scientists, both a little broken? (Humph.) That thought made Tony feel resentful on both their behalves. And Pepper had seemed so sure!

Tony chuckled a little bitterly. If it had been anything else, he probably would have enjoyed seeing Pepper so mistaken and wrong-footed for once. She was almost always right about almost always everything; it could have been refreshing to see her get something totally wrong. 

(“Steve? Steve _Rogers_?”) 

Tony glared at the glowing schematics, still running his fingers over the smooth surface of Dummy’s head. He was itching to make something with his hands, but the new Bite needed more planning and its circuits would be too delicate after a few, er, _several_ glasses of wine, and everything else he might do would really call for the blow-torch . . .

(See? Look how mature and sensible I’m being, and with nobody here to appreciate it. Terribly unfair.) 

“Tony?” Bruce called. “Oh, ah, hi. JARVIS said you were back.”

“Bruce!” 

“You’re working on something,” Bruce said, squinting at the screen. “Should I come back?”

“Come back? No! Stay, stay. Mi casa, etc. What brings you down here? Lemme guess-- science?” 

“Well, yes,” Bruce said, smiling. “I have some data sets from the new experiment I ran, but I’m doing the breakdown for the spectrometer data and could use a second set of eyes.”

Tony grinned. “Your place or mine, baby?” 

Bruce rolled his eyes. “Well, all my stuff is in my lab, but I could—”

“No, no. The mountain will totally go to Mohammed. Vamanos!” 

(Perfect.) Crunching numbers would be the ideal distraction. And while working with Bruce, he’d savor how very wrong Pepper had been. (And not worry about Pepper. Or Steve.)

***

Tony was frowning at the schematic in front of him. (These circuits won’t bear that kind of power load. Damn.)

“Hey,” Steve said with a little smile as he stepped into the workshop. Steve’s footfalls as he approached always seemed too quiet for such a big guy—super-soldiers were designed to be graceful and stealthy, apparently. Or maybe Steve always had been. . . .

“Mmm,” Tony grunted, waving a vague hand at the doorway. 

(Maybe altered repulsor beams, blended with conventional electric circuitry…?)

Steve wrapped strong arms around Tony from behind, pressing his chest to Tony’s back. “Hey, sweetheart,” Steve murmured softly. He pressed a kiss to Tony’s temple and nuzzled a little against his neck, then he rested his chin on Tony’s shoulder, just holding him. They were silent a few moments. 

“How’s your work going?” Steve asked. 

“It’s okay,” Tony said, reaching up to slide a new graph into place. “Just busy.” 

“Stuff for Stark Industries? Oh, yeah-- how was your lunch meeting?” 

“Fine. And, no, this is Avengers stuff.” 

“Oh? What are you making?” Steve leaned forward to peer at the lines of code and graphs. “Are you still working on the new arrows for Clint?”

“No, I’m working on something new. Steve, I’m really—” He waved between himself and the projection. Steve stepped away. 

“Sorry,” Steve said with a rueful smile. He put his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you, but I thought you might have skipped dinner, so I wanted to ask if you’d like me to bring you something.” 

“Yeah, sure,” Tony said, still squinting at the projection. “Sorry, just, I’m working and--”

“No, I totally understand. I’ll bring something down soon.” Steve paused. “And, uh, I wanted to ask you something.” 

(Huh? Oh shit, shit, shit. Not _now_.) 

Tony looked over at Steve, tearing his eyes from the perfectly ordered world of his own designs. Steve was giving him this sweet, hopeful look. 

“I was also wondering if, when you’re done, you might like to join me in bed?”

Tony fidgeted, glancing back at his work. “I’ve got a lot left to do. It’s going to be a really late night and I’m . . .” He hesitated. “Steve, I’m kind of . . .” (not in the mood) “— _tired_ for . . .” He made a vague gesture between them.

“Oh!” Steve shook his head, looking embarrassed. “I didn’t mean-- I mean, I understand. Of course,” he hesitated a moment and gave Tony his shy smile, head tilted to the side, “I just . . . I know you don’t keep regular hours and I understand, but I was hoping that when you _do_ decide to go to bed you might come join me. To sleep. You don’t have to . . . uh.” 

Steve shuffled on his feet then seemed to push his awkwardness away. He threw back his shoulders (does he know he does that?) and said more confidently, though still quietly: “I like sleeping with you and waking up with you, Tony. So when you decide to get some rest, if you’d like to do it in my room, with me, you’re always welcome.” He smiled.

(Fuck.) Tony swallowed. 

“Oh,” Tony said. “Okay. Thanks.” He glanced away. “I really have a lot of work to do, though, so—”

“That’s fine, Tony,” Steve said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll be back down in a few minutes with something to eat. There are still some of Bruce’s curried lentils if you like. Or I could make you a ham sandwich.” 

Tony shrugged. “Whatever’s fine.”

Steve pressed a kiss to Tony’s temple and whispered, “Be right back.” 

***

_October 25_

It was three in the morning. 

Tony had been drinking coffee for hours, curried lentils and ham sandwich long since demolished. (And, yeah, of course Steve brought both.) Natasha’s new Widow’s Bite wasn’t as far along as he would have hoped. He’d built the first section of basic circuitry, but he still wasn’t done with it and he hadn’t even started on the shell. He checked the clock again. 

3:15 am.

Tony rubbed his eyes. It felt good to work on a project like this. It was good to use brains and hands and just sink into it. But, now it had been . . . how many hours since he got back from Bruce’s lab? Nine? Maybe ten? Not sure. 

3:18 am.

Natasha didn’t actually need a new, improved Bite immediately. She didn’t even know he was working on it. His eyes were aching. Maybe he should get some rest and finish it up tomorrow.

“Hey, JARVIS? Save and sleep mode. Time for some rest.”

Tony could grab a nap on his workshop couch. He’d done it plenty of times before.

“If I may, sir, a most sensible notion.” A pause. “Shall I lock the workshop on your departure?”

“You’re not subtle, JARVIS,” Tony said with a chuckle. 

“I’m sure I’ve no idea what you’re talking about, sir.” 

“Yeah right.” (Still, might as well go up to a proper bed.) “And, sure, lock up behind me.”

Tony stretched and rubbed his neck as he padded over to the elevator and sent it up towards the penthouse. The floor indicators glowed as they passed.

(“. . . _you’re always welcome . . ._ ”)

47, 48, 49 . . .

“That’s good! Stop,” Tony told the elevator suddenly. “Here’s fine.” He hit the button just to be sure. 

(It’s really not a big deal.)

Tony stepped out of the elevator and into Steve’s suite. All the lights were off, except for the little safety lights in the hall and by the elevator—not that Steve was likely to trip in the dark and sue Stark Industries, but whatever… Tony padded quietly down the hall to Steve’s bedroom. Steve usually shut the door before bed, but tonight it was open. Tony hovered in the doorway. 

Steve was curled up on his side, blankets piled high around his body, his back to the door. All Tony could see was a lumpy blanket shape and the top of his head, vague and indistinct in the darkness. 

After standing in the doorway watching Steve sleep for a few minutes (not like a creepy stalker at all), Tony stepped inside and toed off his shoes. He stripped down to his boxers and t-shirt, leaving his Armani in a messy pile on the floor. He shut the door very quietly and crept to Steve’s bed, finding his way by the faint light of the arc reactor through his t-shirt. He paused.

(Huh. I really hope Steve doesn’t kill me in his sleep.)

Tony hovered uncertainly, eyes still adjusting to the almost blackness. What might a super-soldier do if startled?

Steve stirred a little, let out a deep sigh and rolled over. 

“Tony?” he murmured barely fluttering his eyes open.

“Yeah,” Tony whispered. “It’s me, babe.”

“Mmmm,” Steve sighed, sliding the covers back for Tony to slip into bed. Steve pulled Tony close, making him little spoon, then nuzzled the back of Tony’s neck. He wriggled closer so his whole body was flush with Tony’s. Tony took Steve’s hand in his and pressed them to his chest, right above the arc reactor.

“ ‘m glad you came,” Steve mumbled against Tony’s shoulder. Tony’s chest felt tight. (Oh fuck, I love you.)

Tony took long deep breaths, trying to push away the idiotic stresses of the day, relaxing down into Steve’s embrace. (He can make his own decisions.) Tony listened to the calming sound of Steve’s long, steady breaths as he drifted easily back to sleep. (He loves me.) It was quiet in the tower, high above the sounds of the city.

(Things are good. We can do this.)

“I love you, Steve,” Tony whispered, barely a breath.

Tony felt Steve sigh against the back of his neck. “Mmm . . . love you too . . .” Steve mumbled. Tony smiled. (Not asleep after all.) It was warm in Steve’s bed, nestled in his arms. Soon, Tony drifted to sleep. 

**End of Part I**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for joining me! Sorry there wasn't more Steve here . . .Tony needed some time on his own. 
> 
> Up next: Steve reads SM101... The chapter has been in the works for ages, so I hope you're looking forward to it as much as I am. :-)
> 
> Thanks for all your support and kindness!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait, everybody! On the upside, it's about 3 times longer than my usual chapters. Hope you like it!
> 
> My thanks to Rex Luscus for her hand-holding and all the help with formatting and for making the post-it note!

Part II

Chapter 9

November 1, 2012

Steve loved running. It was one of the best things about his new body—the ability to move so quickly and fluidly, never to struggle for breath like he used to. It was miraculous and he had never quite lost his sense of wonder. He hoped he never would. 

It was a beautiful day. In the past week, Tony had been busy and maybe a little subdued, but things between them had been great. They’d gone out for tapas with the team—Natasha’s turn to pick the restaurant-- and if Tony sat a little closer than he would have before nobody made a big deal of it. While Tony worked in his lab, Steve had taught another module at SHEILD and he’d been helping Natasha put her new Bite through its paces. Tony had resurfaced to join them for another movie—Steve’s pick this time, _Star Trek IV_ —and Tony had teased Steve good-naturedly about his love for the crew of the Enterprise. He’d even promised to take Steve to the Monterey Bay Aquarium sometime. (They don’t actually have whales there, though. That was pretty disappointing.) 

They hadn’t done anything new in bed, but Tony had curled up with him almost every night, even when they didn’t go to bed together. Waking up with Tony in the mornings left Steve feeling warm and contented—he liked to dwell on the way Tony’s arms felt around him, the way he sighed and murmured and wiggled closer even sound asleep. (And he’s willing to be big spoon!) It was wonderful. And, though they hadn’t tried anything new, what they’d done had been . . . (Ha! Not blushing! ) Well, it had been really really good. (It’s called “frottage” apparently, that thing we’ve been doing.) And Steve was getting better at blow jobs, or at least he was thought he was. (Stupid gag reflex. . . ) Steve was pretty sure he’d made some progress already, even though Tony hadn’t actually gotten him any _supplementary materials_ to . . . practice on yet. 

Steve’s brow furrowed. Tony still hadn’t given him the books he’d promised either. Would it be okay to ask? Or remind Tony? Just to reassure him that Steve was totally sincere—he wanted to read whatever Tony wanted him to read. That should be okay, right? Well, he’d wanted to ask Tony on a date for Saturday night, so maybe he could remind him at the same time. 

Pensive, Steve slowed down his run a little. Maybe that was why Tony still hadn’t . . . _fucked_ him? Steve felt a little rush just thinking the word. Steve had asked a few more times when they were fooling around, begged for it in the most romantic and erotic terms he could think of, but Tony kept shushing him and promising, “soon.” Maybe he was waiting for Steve to read those books before going any farther? Steve nodded to himself and sped up again, turning towards the Tower instinctively.

He’d ask Tony about it right away!

***

(What about nanotransistors? No, that’s not it either. . . huh. What about--)

“Call incoming. Ms. Potts, sir,” JARVIS announced. Tony paused.

( _“So, are we still going to have that drink before I go?” she’d asked. “Or are you too busy?” . . . “Well, I am pretty busy . . .” “Oh, well, if it would cut into your schedule too badly . . .” “I could still make time, if you want, it’s just . . .” “No, no—I’ve got a lot on my plate too for the next few days. . .” “So next time you’re out, yeah?” “Of course—I’m so sorry we have to reschedule, but we’ll see each other soon , and I’ll let you know how the meetings go . . .”_ )

“Yeah, okay. Put her through.” 

Dummy wheeled over to him with a tumbler of . . . water? (What? You think I need a drink?)

“Pep! How are you? How’d all the boring meetings go? Better you than me.”

“They weren’t boring and they went well, but I’ll choose to interpret that as an expression of gratitude.”

“Good. Yes! Absolutely.”

“Excellent. Shall I give you the run-down now, or put it in an email?” 

“Email!” 

There was a long pause, then Pepper asked in that wonderful, dry tone of voice: “Will you read the email?”

“Yes?” Tony said without enthusiasm, making the statement a question, then he said more confidently, “Yes, of course I’ll read it. I’m sure it will be fascinating. Your prose style enlivens even the dullest documents!”

“Why thank you, Mr. Stark,” she said, somewhere between rolling her eyes and smiling amusement. (Good. That’s good.) “It’s nice to know that you appreciate the skills I cultivated as an English major. Though you do realize--”

“Wait, what?” 

“—that I delegate most of those reports, right? Because I actually know how to delegate?”

“English major? I thought you majored in CEO wrangling and threatening finger-shaking.”

“Those are just the gifts I received at birth, Tony.” 

With a teasing leer in his voice, Tony said, “They’re not the only ones,” then cringed. 

(Ah fuck.) A pause.

“So,” Pepper said. “How have things been? At the Tower?” 

“Good. Really good.”

“You haven’t had any missions?”

“Nah, super-villains remember their last ass-kicking too vividly. They won’t be stirring for a while.”

(Maybe Dummy or You could use some maintenance?) Tony was itching to do something with his hands. 

“Good,” Pepper said decisively, then asked softly, “You know I still worry about you, right?”

“I know, Pep.”

“You’re my _friend_. I . . . just want you to be safe and happy. I couldn’t bear to see you get hurt. You know that.”

(It’s why you left. Well, part of it.) Tony swallowed. “Yeah.” It came out a little rough. He grabbed the tumbler at his elbow and threw back the contents. (Oh yeah. Water.)

Another pause. “Tony, I’ve been wanting to apologize for --” 

(No! Don’t want to talk about it!)

“No, hey, don’t worry about it! That—” Tony rushed to cut her off. 

“It’s just that I—”

“—stuff happens. I mean, we’re both busy people. Rescheduling a drink is seriously no big deal. No need to apologize!” (Shit, shit, shit. Excuse . . . need one. Come on, universe!)

“No, Tony, I was—”

“Steve!” Tony exclaimed as he saw the elevator open. (Oh fuck. Uh.) 

Pepper fell silent. Steve, his eyes bright and face flushed, came bounding out of the elevator with a luminous smile. (Seriously, brain? _Luminous?_ Huh.) 

“Sorry, Pepper,” Tony said as Steve approached the workshop doors. “Do you think I could call you back?” 

“Of course, Tony,” she said. (Something odd in her tone of voice. Again.) “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Yeah. You too, Pep. Bye.” 

There was a little ‘click’ as JARVIS ended the call. 

“Tony!” Steve said, still smiling but perhaps a hint nervous as he hovered at the threshold. Tony waved him inside. “Are you busy?”

“Always,” Tony said, dismissing it with a flick of the wrist, “but for you? I’ve got time.” 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt you,” Steve said, his smile falling a little. 

“No, no. I mean, there’s always stuff to do, right? But it doesn’t have to be right now. So shoot, babe.” 

“Well, I was wondering if I could take you on a date Saturday night. We’d have to get an early dinner. Or, well, maybe a very late one.” 

“You intrigue me.” Tony raised one eyebrow at him. 

“I’m glad,” Steve said, smiling again.

“So what is the mystery date?”

“Can’t I just surprise you?”

(Ugh.) Tony hesitated. “Sure. Yeah, sure thing.” 

Steve grinned. “It’s a date!”

Tony glanced over as his schematic went to screensaver—Classic cars—then back to Steve. Steve rubbed the back of his neck and looked away for a moment. 

“I know I should let you go back to work, but there was something else, actually. If you have a minute?” 

Tony nodded. (He just asked you on a date, stupid. Everything’s fine.) Steve bit his lip and a hint of a blush colored his cheeks. (Oh, yay! Bet it’s about sex.)

“Well, it’s just that last week, you said there were . . . _things_ . . . you wanted me to read.” (Ha! I was right!) “And I just wanted to say once more that, I really do want to learn. Tony, I’ll read whatever you want to give me. I mean, I’d like to.” Steve smiled at him—the shy, head-tilted smile that Tony loved so much. 

Tony nodded. “Okay. I’ll get those books to you first thing. I was just--” (Worried? Uncertain? Stalling?) Tony fumbled. “They’re a lot to take in. I just didn’t want to rush.”

“But you can!” Steve blurted, then looked embarrassed. “I mean, you’re not rushing me. Not in the least. And I’m really . . . eager.” He dropped his voice, lowered his head, and looked up from under his lashes, adding, “For everything.”

Tony’s breath caught. “Yeah,” he murmured, reaching out to touch Steve’s cheek. Steve leaned into it like a cat. “Okay. I’ll give you that reading material right away.”

“Thank you, Tony.”

***

When Steve came back from his meeting at SHEILD that afternoon, there was a brown paper bag on his drawing desk. Tony had written a card, in thick lines of terrible penmanship: “For you, baby. Feel free to skim or skip the technique sections, but read the bookmarked parts carefully for me, ok?” Tony hadn’t bothered to sign it, but he really didn’t need to. Steve smiled. 

Anticipation was something Steve liked to savor. He went to his little kitchenette and made an entire pot of lavender earl grey tea. (A gift from Bruce.) He fixed up a tray with his Stark Industries mug, milk & sugar, and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits (a gift from Natasha). He put the teapot under his tea cozy (a gift from Thor, who learned to knit from Jane), and carried the whole thing over to his favorite armchair, the one Tony hated. (Clint had helped him rescue it from a curb in Brooklyn.) Steve put a pencil behind his ear and grabbed his StarkTab, then settled in to read. 

Steve liked to be thorough in his reading practices, so he began at the very beginning:

> _SM 101: A Realistic Introduction_ by Jay Wiseman.*
> 
> Second Edition
> 
> greenery press
> 
> ©1996 by Jay J. Wiseman. All rights reserved.  
>  First edition published November, 1992, by Jay J. Wiseman

It began by reprinting Shakespeare’s Sonnet 57: “Being your slave, what should I do but tend / Upon the hours and times of your desire? . . .” Steve smiled and continued as the author asserted with confident eloquence that: BDSM is not an illness; it is not cruel; it is not abusive. (Yes!) Danger comes from misinformation and misrepresentation. Wiseman wrote, “Another purpose of this book is to ease the terrible pain and isolation SM people often feel.” Steve swallowed thickly and continued. He read:

> “I’ve occasionally heard of creeps trying to persuade their lovers to accept abuse because it was ‘part of SM.’ I hope the exposure provided by this book greatly reduces such incidents. The Bible says, ‘He who doeth evil hateth the light.’ I want this book to be a floodlight, exposing evil and cruelty.” (5)

Steve read it again. He reached up for his pencil and then lightly underlined the last two sentences.

(Off to a good start!)

Steve took a sip of tea and flipped through to see what Tony had bookmarked. It was pretty much the first 88 pages: “Preliminaries” and “Basic Basics.” (Isn’t that a tautology?) 

There was a detailed list of the differences between SM and abuse followed by a checklist for identifying the signs. Steve found it powerfully reassuring to see things he’d grappled with, struggled to find words for, printed out so clearly. Though, surely no one could ever confuse what Tony did for him with abuse—it was so loving. 

Steve continued his reading.

> “Also, the approach of ‘If you really loved me, you’d do SM with me’ is reprehensible. . . If _you_ really loved _them_ you wouldn’t treat them in such an unfair way, and I hope they’re smart enough to realize that.” (48)

Steve frowned. (Did I--?) Steve shrugged it off. (I told him I love him no matter what.) He called up memories of Tony: his eyes bright with lust and affection; the thickness in his voice as he gave orders; the way his eyes had lingered on Steve’s bound wrists. ( _“So gorgeous . . . spread out and restrained for me like this . . . You’re so good . . . Maybe I’ll tie you down and make you take it until you scream. . .”_ ) Steve flushed. (Yeah. We’re good. Tony wants it like this too.) Tony had seemed _very_ pleased by the sight of Steve pressed submissively to his foot. (Everything’s fine.)

Steve took a sip of water and continued his research. Or more accurately, his homework. _That_ reminded him he was reading all this because Tony told him; it was quite a nice feeling. 

Steve took another sip of tea and grabbed a biscuit. He continued reading:

> “A submissive has an ethical duty to offer themselves to the dominant in a good-faith way. They should not try to control the session (or ‘top from below,’ as it’s called . . .”

Steve paused. He shoved the last of the biscuit in his mouth, wiped his fingers on a napkin, and reached for his tablet. He added a note at the bottom of their spreadsheet.

Steve moved on.

> “The dominant is not there to please the submissive. The submissive is there to please the dominant.”

(Oh God, yes please . . .) The desire to please Tony was like a heavy yearning, an ache deep in his chest or coiled tight in his stomach. He wanted Tony to use him, and the very word sent a frisson on guilty pleasure through him. ( **Make** me please you.) He wanted to know that he was making it good for Tony, being good for Tony. ( _“So good for me, baby. . . yeah . . .”_ ) Steve tried to ignore his swelling cock and concentrate on his reading. He took a few long even breaths.

Steve flipped to the back of the book. It had 391 pages. He bit his lip—this might take a while to get through if he gave in to the temptation to take . . . _breaks_. 

Steve took another deep calming breath and continued to read. 

***

Tony frowned.

“I know you’re there,” Tony called without turning around. “Even if you and JARVIS have some sort of creepy deal that he not announce you, which is obviously cheating by the way.” (Damn super spies.) He thought he could _feel_ Natasha raise her eyebrow at him, but a few moments later she did come inside, moving silently as always. 

“Are you here about the Bite? ‘Cause I know you maybe _think_ you want more strength, but you don’t. If I put any more ‘oomph’ into it, you’re gonna get such a strong recoil it’ll take you off your feet.” Tony paused and capitulated—he turned. Natasha cocked her head to one side, giving him that impassive look. He stared back at her. He hated that look. (Well maybe…) 

“At least, if I leave the repulsor beams the way they are, with micro-electric-circuitry, you’ll have the recoil.” Tony frowned. “Maybe, though, it could pack more of a punch if I blended that with--”

“The Bite’s perfect.” Natasha said it softly, seriously, and took a step closer. Tony fell silent. He picked up his screwdriver back up; he’d put it down when he saw her reflection on You’s shiny surface. 

“The Bite’s perfect?” Immediately, Tony wished he could take the words back, undo his tone: uncertain and pleased and surprised. 

(I’m Tony Stark. Of course it’s perfect.)

Natasha nodded, not quite smiling. “Yeah. It’s exactly what I wanted.” Pause. “Cap helped me run training with it.”

Tony unscrewed the bottom of the laptop he’d been playing with again. 

“Did he.” Tony tried to say it neutrally, even though he knew it was hopeless with Natasha. 

“The Captain’s a good man,” Natasha said. (Ah shit. Et tu, Widow? I _know_ that.) Tony held in a sigh and tried not to let his shoulders slump, tried not to give everything away. (Great. Yep, shovel speech. Woo.) He was holding his breath, unscrewing things that didn’t need it in an attempt to look busy. 

“The Captain’s a good man, but he’s not perfect,” Natasha said. Tony blinked and went still. “And you’re a good man too.” Tony thought his jaw might have dropped if he hadn’t been frozen stiff with shock. 

Natasha reached out and picked up one of the tiny screws between her thumb and forefinger, examining it pensively as she added, “You have a bad habit, Tony.” She set it back down very carefully and continued, “You idolize people. You actually believe that some people are perfect-- Pepper, Steve. But they’re not. No one is.” 

Natasha walked around the workbench, sauntering closer and closer, until she was right next to Tony. She had so much presence; he always forgot he was actually taller until they were standing close like this. 

“You think they’re perfect, so you imagine there’s an impossible gulf between you. But there isn’t. There really isn’t.”

Tony’s heart was hammering in his chest, which didn’t make sense at all. Natasha reached up and very lightly touched his shoulder.

“You’re good for him,” she said quietly. 

Tony took a sharp little breath and let out something rather like a choked laugh. He shook his head and gave her a wry smile. “I thought you were here to give me a shovel speech.”

Natasha smiled at him and it was always hard to read her expressions, but the way her lips quirked to the side and her brows furrowed looked maybe a little amused, and maybe more than a little sad. 

“I know.” 

***  
***

Steve had finished the sections that Tony had marked off for him a while ago. It had been helpful. Really. For the past hour, though, he’d been skimming through the sections Tony said he could skip. They were making him _uneasy_. 

Tony made everything seem so effortless, simple as breathing, natural as his genius. Dominance seemed to flow from Tony’s body-- a reflex, an instinct. It was silly, but Steve had sometimes wondered if that had drawn him to Tony in the first place, as if the hidden submissive inside him was calling out to Tony’s dominance for completion, finding yet another reason to love Tony beyond all the obvious ones anyone could see: Tony’s courage, his kindness, his fierce intelligence, his generosity, his sense of humor . . . Tony had taken charge like it was the most natural thing in the world for him, like he knew exactly what to do with Steve, exactly what Steve needed. 

Now Steve wasn’t so sure. 

Flipping through the book, reading snippets here and there, Steve had been getting an understanding of how much _work_ all this must be for Tony. It didn’t seem like the sort of thing that could come effortlessly for anyone. 

First off, the book made it very clear how carefully Tony had to watch Steve.

> “As a submissive approaches their limits, a skilled dominant watches them closely. The submissive will typically become increasingly tense. Their breathing will become tighter and more labored. Their muscles will grow more rigid. A good dominant backs of before the submissive calls their safeword.” (53-4). 

So, even with a safeword, Tony still had to keep a close eye on him since, apparently, “submissives sometimes forget their safewords” or “a submissive sometimes becomes so accepting of the dominant’s wishes or so ‘endorphined-out’ by the session that calling their safeword will not occur to them . . . in such a case, an unperceptive dominant could unknowingly cause severe damage . . .” (53).

Steve worried his lower lip and continued leafing back through the book. (Doesn’t that take an awful lot of concentration? Can Tony focus on all that and still enjoy himself?)

Steve had had no idea that so many considerations—size of rope, arm position, type of knot—could go into just tying his hands behind his back. There were pages devoted to it, and safety cautions throughout. Even untying him required safety warnings:

> “[when untying a submissive] let them move their own body. Muscles become sore and joints become stiff when they haven’t moved in a while. If a well meaning dominant ‘helps’ by moving the body part for the submissive, they can cause a strain or similar injury . . .” (146). 

> “ . . . don’t massage or otherwise rub freshly released limbs, especially if indentations remain in their flesh from the restraints. Such rubbing may be painful and cause tissue damage. Let freshly released tissue re-expand at its own pace” (146). 

Tissue damage! (Sounds so serious…) How could Tony keep track of all that? (Isn’t it stressful?)

Steve had checked “curious” in the column for “gags,” so he’d read that section and found it too was full of cautions:

> “. . . if you gag a submissive, you obviously have to stay with them and watch them even more closely than you ordinarily would . . . for safety’s sake, you should attach the mouth-stuffing to the strap so that it cannot work its way into the back of the submissive’s throat. Again, failure to do that has resulted in many accidental deaths. . .” (149). 

Steve shivered. It seemed like it had gotten chilly in his living room. He reached out to pour himself a cup of tea—something soothing, something to ease the strange twisting in his guts—but the tea had gone cold. He took a sip anyway; it was over-steeped now and tasted bitter.

Without really meaning to, Steve flipped forward to the section on pain play— (play?) —and felt bombarded: _vulnerable internal organs . . . neck injury and ‘whip lash,’ . . . must monitor your submissive carefully . . . breathing rate, muscle tension . . . lasting damage, physical and/or psychological . . . Dom’s responsibility to . . ._

Steve set the book aside, fumbling a little in his haste, and it fell to the floor with a dull thud. Steve leapt from his seat and began to pace. 

(Stupid. Selfish.)

He’d had no idea. How stressful, how exhausting it must be! How could Tony possibly want to do all that work? Steve shook his head. He felt so stupid. Of course, on some level Steve had realized that giving up control actually meant giving it _to_ Tony, making Tony take it . . . but how could anyone possibly want this? The idea of all that responsibility felt like it might crush Steve into thousand pieces just thinking about it. 

Even without ropes and gags and whips, the book made it clear that there could be psychological distress and it was the Dom’s job to look out for that sort of thing, to monitor muscle tension, breathing, minute body language. (No wonder Tony’d been so upset . . . I was _sobbing_ . . . He thought he’d failed in his duty.) Steve bit his lip. Being together—like this—was so much _work_ for Tony. But he did it anyway. For Steve. 

Steve shook his head. (No. Tony loves it. He does. We’re good.) Steve called up a picture of Tony grinning at him, naked and sweaty and pleased. (Tony obviously likes it like this.) But suddenly another image of Tony flashed into his mind: Tony smiling, happy and satisfied, completely at ease surrounded by reporters and investors. 

Steve’s stomach clenched and his pace sped. Tony was an _amazing_ actor. He could fake his way through just about anything he wanted. And, really, why would he want to do all that work? It was so clearly all about Steve (Stupid. Selfish.) Steve came to a sudden stop as if he’d run into a brick wall. How had he not noticed before? _Tony_ never filled out a spreadsheet—just Steve. It was all about Steve, everything they did together. It was all about what Steve wanted. 

Steve paced so quickly he was almost running, starting at one end of his far-too-large living room, rushing to the end, and then ricocheting away again. 

(No, this is ridiculous.) Tony loved seeing Steve on his knees, tied up, at his command. Didn’t he? He’d said he did. (Oh sure, ‘cause Tony always tells the truth… Especially when it’s about what _he_ wants or needs. . . ) Steve glanced over at the book. He knew Tony had read it. (Tony ‘affirms and reassures.’ That’s what a good Dom is supposed to do.) Steve’s eyes were stinging.

Would Tony actually say no to anything Steve wanted? (Of course! Well, probably. Maybe.) But if Tony thought it was a condition of being together? Steve’s heart was pounding and his stomach dropped. ( _“I want to surrender. . . Tony, there’s only one person I trust that much.”_ ) What was Tony supposed to think after that? (I told him what I wanted sexually before I even said I loved him! What the hell’s the matter with me?) Steve’s heart rate was climbing. (Does he think I’m using him? That we’re together because there’s nobody else I could trust to tie me up?) Steve shook his head. (No, he can’t think that. He _can’t_. Right?) Steve’s whole body vibrated with tension. (What if Tony really thinks _this_ —SM— is the only reason I want him, the price of being together? Would he actually say no then?)

Steve was having trouble breathing. For God’s sake, Tony had offered to give up Iron Man to keep Pepper! It had been his last ditch attempt to keep her from leaving . . . (I bet he doesn’t remember telling me that; he did black out. Oh, God he’d have done it too, at least for a while. . . it would have killed him inside, but he offered, he’d have tried to leave the team to keep her. I hate that, I hate it, I hate it . . .) Steve took a long gasping breath. Was there anything Tony _wouldn’t_ do to keep someone he cared for, someone he loved? (Oh God.) 

Tony Stark could fake _anything_ if he wanted to, could fake and lie like nobody Steve had ever met. Steve had fallen for his act before, fallen for it so easily when they first met. (What if I’ve been falling for it again?)

Steve paced back and forth faster and faster, his thoughts a chaotic, miserable jumble, circling around and around, back and forth; he poked and picked at the painful idea like a scab-- until finally it bled. 

Steve took the steps down to the lab two at a time. He couldn’t bear to wait for the elevator.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At last! Chapter 9 is done! And long! Yay!
> 
> This chapter was a real struggle and it went through about six drafts which I gutted, scrapped, glued back together, then gutted again. I really hope you enjoy the results! *looks nervous* Yeah. So, if you liked this or if there were any bits you especially enjoyed and you wanted to take a moment to let me know, I’d really love to hear it! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading and for sharing in Steve and Tony’s adventures with me!
> 
> *Jay Wiseman’s SM101 is a very good book and I’ve tried to use quotations from it with respect. I in no way wish to imply that his book is to blame for the emotional panic Steve is going through at the end of this chapter, though I do think it’s probably an even better beginner’s book for aspiring Dom(me)s than it is for subs. Not everything in SM101 is in accord with my personal BDSM philosophy, but that’s totally fine and there are, as Tony told Steve, lots of different and valid ways to practice safe, sane, and consensual SM. (To a certain extent, everyone has to figure out what works for them as they go along.) I met Mr. Wiseman in the SF scene a few times; he was welcoming and kind to me when I was a novice and I’m very grateful to him.


	10. Chapter 10

Tony was still tinkering with the old laptop, taking it apart and putting it back together. He could make a better machine from scratch and, considering it was a _Dell_ he could do it in his sleep in half an hour in a cave with the most deplorable junk, but that wasn’t really the point. There had to be a way to recycle this crap more effectively. (‘Cause seriously, it’s ridiculous to let people dump their used electronics on Africa. The crap people keep sending them is worth more for the copper than anything else . . .) Dummy handed him an even smaller screwdriver and then, for no obvious reason, a Frisbee. So, recycle or repurpose. Actually repurpose. 

Also, taking things apart was a good way to keep his hands busy while Pepper filled him in on meetings and Stark Industries stuff. 

“Also, before I forget. You’re going to have to call McNeil yourself.” 

(Copper! Maybe if—huh, wait?)

  
“I am?”

“Yes. You hired him, Tony, though God only knows why! He’s almost as hard to talk to as you are.” 

“Well, there you go. He belongs in R&D!” Tony unscrewed another tiny plate. “Seriously, though. He’s . . . moderately competent. Which is high praise! And what do you mean I’m hard to talk to? I’m handsome and charming and--” There was a loud noise coming from the emergency staircase. (Huh. Weird. Sounds a bit like . . .) “Uh, and I’ve even been told that I’m--”

Tony fell silent as Steve came tumbling into the lab, wild-eyed and breathing heavily. He froze when he saw Tony—then hovered, panting in the doorway with _SM101_ clutched in his hand. He looked wretched and panicked. It wasn’t a look Tony had seen often; it was one he’d be glad never to see again. Tony cleared his throat.

“Hey, Pepper?” Tony swallowed. “I’m gonna have to call you back. Again.”

“What’s going on? Is everything okay?” He could hear her frowning. 

“Yeah, everything’s fine—just gotta go. I’ll call you back. Later. Promise! Bye! JARVIS, end call.”

Steve crossed the room in a flash and, for a second Tony thought Steve was going to drop to his knees, but instead he wrapped his arms around Tony and buried his face against Tony’s neck murmuring what sounded like “I’m sorry.” 

Tony stroked his neck and hair. “Hey, hey. What’s happened? Are you okay?” 

Steve nodded, face still hidden, arms tight around Tony’s waist.

“Shhh,” Tony murmured, trying not to panic. (What the hell?) “It’s okay. . . Whatever it is, it’s okay. . . I’ve got you . . .” Tony kept his left arm firmly around Steve’s waist, trying to anchor him, while with his right hand he kept caressing Steve’s neck and hair. 

(It’s fine. Things are good. Maybe it’s not about us at all!)

“Uh, sorry,” Steve said, after a few long moments. He pulled back to give Tony a weak smile. “I didn’t mean to be so melodramatic.”

“Hey, no. It’s okay.” Tony stroked his back. “What’s going on?” 

Steve was still breathing heavily and his eyes were shining a little wetly. 

“I just, I love you so much, Tony,” Steve began, his tone apologetic, his expression pained and oddly helpless. Tony’s heart clenched. 

(Calm down, stupid. He’s not breaking up with you. It’s fine. That’s not it.)

“Tony, I said everything all out of order and I’m sorry.” Steve seemed to struggle for a moment before continuing, “I’ve been selfish and I’m so sorry.” (Huh?) “I had no idea what I was asking of you, and then I started thinking and I suddenly realized,” Steve looked away, shamefaced, and his voice dropped, “I never even asked you if you want this.” Steve waved the book in his hand. In almost a whisper, Steve repeated: “I never even asked.” 

Tony just stared at him. He was pretty sure his mouth was hanging open.

Steve continued, his voice stronger, more confident: “Tony, I love you—no matter what—and you don’t have to do all this for me to make me want to be with you. I just want to make you happy. If this doesn’t make you happy, I don’t want it. I _love_ you.” Steve’s voice was almost small as he added, looking down, “I want you any way you’ll have me.” 

(Oh fuck!)

“Steve, sweetheart,” Tony said, still at a loss for words. He gave Steve a hug and took a deep breath. “Come on. Let’s not do this huddled at my bench, yeah? Let’s at least go sit on the couch. Come on, baby.” 

Tony led Steve to his battered leather couch, stretched out across it and pulled Steve down into his arms. As he stroked Steve’s back, Tony thought he felt a little tremor run through him. 

“Jeeze, you’re really worked up,” Tony murmured softly, more to himself than Steve. “Baby, I don’t really know where this is coming from and I wanna talk about that in a moment, but first let’s clear something up.” 

Tony tipped Steve’s chin up to look him in the eye. 

“I want this. I want to be with you. I want to be your dom and I want you to be my sub. Okay?” 

“But you don’t have to,” Steve said softly. “We can be together without . . . without all that.”

“I know,” Tony said gently. “You’ve said that before, sweetheart, or don’t you remember?” Tony ran his thumb across Steve’s cheek. “I know I don’t have to. I want to.” 

Steve let out a shuddering breath and a little of the tension left his muscles.

“It’s okay, Steve.” Tony just held him like that for several long minutes, breathing in unison, stroking Steve’s back and neck. Little by little, Steve relaxed into his arms, pressing more and more heavily against his chest.

(Mine! Mine, mine, mine.)

“Hey,” Tony said, putting a hint of teasing into his voice and a touch of playfulness into the little shake he gave Steve. “What brought all that on anyway?”

“I was doing the reading you gave me and it just—“ Steve paused then started again. “I was skimming through the later sections and it was all about how careful the, um, _dom_ has to be and all the responsibility and all these techniques and the things you need to be careful of and the way you’ve got to keep a vigilant watch on the . . . the _sub_ and it just sounded—” Steve paused. “-- _stressful_ , like way more work than anything else and then I was thinking about that night when I told you about myself and then, well, there was this bit at the beginning. It was . . . it—“ Steve gave up and handed the book over to Tony, pointing to a paragraph on page 48. 

Tony read: "Also, the approach of ‘If you really loved me, you’d do SM with me’ is reprehensible. . . If you really loved them you wouldn’t treat them in such an unfair way, and I hope they’re smart enough to realize that." 

(Oh. Oh!) 

“You didn’t do that to me, Steve.” Tony blinked. “You didn’t do that. Okay?”

“Okay.” Steve answered but his voice was hesitant. “Are you sure? Because I mean it, we can be together however you—” Steve fell silent when Tony pressed a finger to his lips. 

“Steve?” Tony waited for him to nod, trying to lend his words more gravity. “I’m sure.”

Steve nodded again a little uncertainly, then added, “Okay. If you’re sure.” Steve let out something like a chuckled. “Uh, I’m really sorry to come crashing in like that. Must have looked like an idiot. I didn’t mean to be so . . . dramatic.” 

Tony laughed. “It’s fine. Really, it’s good that we’re talking.” Steve reached out to take Tony’s hand. Tony bit his lip. “And, I want to tell you something. I— Just wait. I need a minute to think.”

Steve nodded, nuzzling at Tony’s chest while Tony gathered his thoughts. (Go on. Say it. Tell him.) Still stroking Steve’s back, Tony frowned, his brows furrowed. Steve couldn’t see that Tony was frowning, but he’d have recognized it as Tony’s “concentration face” even if he had. 

(Say it! Go on . . . Is it okay to have him move? Yeah, he’d probably like it. Okay. Here we go.) 

“Steve? Will you kneel on the floor for me, sweetheart?”

If Steve was startled by the request he didn’t show it in the least, just slid to his knees and looked up at Tony, wide-eyed and expectant. (Beautiful.) Tony sat up straight, looking down at his lover. He scooted forward, so Steve was kneeling pressed up against his knee. Then, Tony reached out to cup Steve’s cheek with one hand. 

“Steve, I want to be your dom. I had no idea how badly I wanted this until you slid to your knees and looked up at me, telling me you want to surrender. You’re so beautiful, so perfect like this. I don’t just say that I love seeing you kneeling for me, tied up, desperate, obeying my commands because it’s what a dom should do. I really love it.” 

Tony stroked Steve’s cheek and continued: “I loved seeing you press your cheek to my foot because you _want_ to submit. To me. I love knowing that you trust me this much, even if that trust sometimes terrifies me. I love you. It’s an honor to have you as my lover and as my sub.”

Tony paused. Steve’s eyes were shining and his lips were parted; his expression was rapt and attentive, nearly adoring. (Oh fuck. Mine.)

Tony stroked Steve’s face lightly with his fingertips, then reached back to tighten his fist in Steve’s hair. Steve gasped and tilted his head back when Tony pulled. 

“So, don’t doubt that I want this. I do. I want to give you orders and see you obey them. I want to see you kneeling naked at my command. I want you to bend over and spread yourself open for me because I say so. I want to grab you by the hair and fuck your mouth and I want to watch your eyes light up with lust while I do it. I want you to tell me every filthy fantasy you’ve ever had while I hold you down and stroke your cock very, very slowly until you beg me to let you come. I want to tie you up and tease you until you’re flushed and squirming, desperate and begging, over and over again.”

Steve was panting heavily, his face flushed with arousal, his eyes gleaming. Tony could see his dick swelling in his pants.

“I want to make you incoherent with lust and pleasure until you’re a quivering wreck in my arms and then I want to stroke your hair when you’re coming down and tell you what a good boy you are, how perfect. I want you, Steve. All of you.” 

“ _Tony_ ,” Steve breathed his name reverently, like it was some sort of prayer. He swallowed hard. “Please.” 

“Yes,” Tony murmured. He licked his lips. He released his grip on Steve’s hair to lean back on the couch. For a moment he sat, motionless, studying Steve.

“Go on,” Tony said softly. “Strip!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO MUCH for the kindness and support for this story. I am incredibly grateful. 
> 
> Sorry to leave you with a bit of a sex cliffhanger, but I'm leaving on a research trip today and hated to make you wait. I figured I'd go ahead and post what I'd written so far. . . . Hope you like it! :-)
> 
> ************
> 
> UPDATE: I'm so sorry to leave you waiting! I have a major deadline at the end of this month and then another in the first week of May, so things here are on hold until I get RL a bit better controlled. Please don't worry, though-- this story is NOT abandoned. I just need a chunk of time to do a bit of planning, connect some dots, write and polish. So, more coming mid-May! Thank you for your patience.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience and support! I hope you enjoy the new chapter! (I worried a lot about pacing, but if I fuss over it any longer I may never post... so, yes.) 
> 
> Ta-da!

“Go on,” Tony said softly. “Strip!”

“JARVIS—blackout windows and lockdown. Lights 60%. Temperature 78 degrees.”

The AI complied silently while Steve scrambled to get out of his clothes and dropped back to his knees in front of Tony. He was already breathing heavily. Tony looked at him with a pensive expression, then pointed. 

“Now go kneel in the middle of the room,” Tony said softly. Steve found himself wondering if he was allowed to stand up and whether or not he wanted to. (Do I actually want to crawl?) Mentally, he pushed that away as another question for another time, walked across the workshop and rearranged himself in the wide open space Tony used for large projects. 

Tony stayed on the couch, looking at him. Steve waited. Tony seemed very far away. 

“Hands behind your back,” Tony said, voice firm and strong, ringing across the workshop. Steve’s cock jumped and he hurried to comply. Without breaking eye contact, Tony unlaced his shoes, slowly, then removed them. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands steepled, giving Steve an intense look. Steve didn’t move. 

The seconds ticked past. Tony stayed on the couch, so far away, just looking at Steve, kneeling on the concrete floor. Steve fought the urge to squirm. Naked, kneeling, isolated in the huge expanse of the workshop, with no further instructions on what was expected of him . . . He started to feel almost nervous. He licked his lips and looked down, breaking eye contact. 

And then Tony was padding towards him, quiet and barefoot. Head bowed, Steve could hear-- could practically feel-- Tony pacing a slow circle around him. 

“Steve?” Tony said softly. Steve looked up. Tony smiled at him and Steve relaxed a little. He smiled back. 

Tony reached up and unfastened the top button of his shirt. He took a step to the left, unbuttoning the next button. Little by little, Tony undid his shirt, pacing in a circle around Steve. Then he slid the shirt off and tossed it aside. He pulled off his tank top next, exposing the arc reactor and his beautiful chest and stomach.

Standing right in front of Steve, Tony slowly slipped his belt free of his trousers and wrapped the wide, supple leather loosely around his hand before shucking his trousers and kicking them aside. Steve licked his lips. Tony’s cock was hard and flushed, jutting from his body only a foot from Steve’s mouth. He wanted to ask for permission to suck Tony’s cock, wanted to beg for another lesson, but he couldn’t bear to break the silence, so instead he just stared up at Tony. Waiting. _Obedient_.

“Good boy,” Tony murmured, reaching down to caress Steve’s cheek. (Yes, please. . .)

“Do you remember your safeword?” Tony asked. 

Steve nodded, rubbing his face against Tony’s hand, but Tony shook his head. 

“Answer me.”

Steve swallowed. “Yes.” 

“Tell me. Say it properly.”

“Shield. It’s—” Steve swallowed again. “My safeword is shield.”

“Good boy.” 

Tony ran his hands across Steve’s shoulders then down his arms to where he’d crossed his wrists. Steve held his breath. Tony looped his thick leather belt loosely around Steve’s wrists, around and around, then buckled it. Steve’s breath hitched. (Thank you, thank you. . . ) Tony wrapped strong arms around him from behind, his chin resting gently on Steve’s shoulder. Tony’s breath was warm against Steve’s neck. 

“I want you to stay right here, like this, for me,” Tony said softly. “Can you do that for me, baby?”

Steve nodded. 

“Good boy.” Tony pressed a kiss to Steve’s neck. “Don’t move.” And then the warmth of Tony’s body withdrew and Steve could hear him walking away, crossing to the other side of the workshop. 

The concrete floor was hard and cold, its texture rough against Steve’s bare skin. He could hear Tony opening cabinets and rummaging around, but figured he shouldn’t be trying to guess what Tony was up to or what he was planning. (Tony’s in control. Just stay still. Be good. “ _Good boy_.”) This was what Tony wanted from him. (“ _I want to see you kneeling naked at my command._ ” He wants this.) Steve took a deep breath. The minutes trickled by in silence. 

Finally, Steve heard Tony approach and set things down behind him, but he didn’t turn around, didn’t so much as twitch, just waited eagerly for Tony to touch him, to do something. Tony remained still and silent, out of sight, but Steve was certain he could feel Tony’s gaze, hot and heavy on his back, his bound wrists, his ass. He took a breath and waited. How long had it been already? Tony still didn’t move. Was it some sort of test? Was he seeing how long Steve would keep still?

“You’re so fucking beautiful, I think I could stare at you like this for hours.”

Steve smiled. 

Tony tossed two of the big couch cushions down of the floor next to Steve, then wrapped his hand around Steve’s arm, urging him to scoot over and kneel on the padding. “Move for me, honey.” Tony knelt behind him to caress him and nuzzle his neck.

“There. That’s better, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

Steve nodded. 

“You’re still hard,” Tony murmured, sounding pleased. “You like kneeling for me, like being bound, don’t you?” Steve nodded again. “Tell me, Steve. Tell me what you were thinking about.” 

Steve licked his lips. Oh God, Tony’s roving hands felt like they were everywhere at once, his chest, his nipples, his stomach, his hips. . . 

“I was thinking . . .” Steve swallowed. “It’s good obeying you. You’re in charge and . . . I want to please you.” 

Tony licked his neck, a long wet swipe of tongue, then bit his earlobe. Steve shivered. 

“You do,” Tony whispered, hot and heavy in Steve’s ear. “You will.” 

Tony was stoking Steve, long slow touches in a steady rhythm. From his knee along his inner thigh, brushing past his cock, over his hips and stomach, up his chest to his neck, then back to his knee. Tony’s hands were so deliberate, so controlled. It felt powerful. Steve leaned back into Tony’s embrace, the belt around his wrists a steady pressure. Tony’s caresses neither sped nor slowed and soon it was a struggle for Steve not to buck his hips at every pass of Tony’s hand. 

“Shhh,” Tony murmured. “Don’t move.” 

Steve swallowed heavily.

“You’re so good for me,” Tony whispered. “You want to take it, don’t you, baby?”

Steve let out a little sound that might be a whimper. Tony cupped Steve’s chin and tilted his head to place a kiss, soft and delicate, on Steve’s lips. Clumsy and eager, Steve opened his mouth and chased Tony’s mouth as he pulled away. Tony squeezed Steve’s jaw, a hard pressure just a notch below pain. 

“Steve, I’m going to do what I want with you. Do you understand?”

Steve’s breath hitched. (Yes! Please, please, please.)

“Answer me.”

Steve licked his lips. “Yes.”

“Good.”

Tony reached down and slipped his pinky under the belt binding Steve’s hands. He let out a little humming noise of approval and then there was a firm pressure at Steve’s neck and Tony’s hand curled tight around his shoulder. Steve felt a sharp jolt, part-pleasure and part-anxiety, as he was unbalanced. Tony bent him over, pushed him down face first. Tony held Steve there-- his cheek pressed into the cushion, his ass and bound hands high in the air. Steve’s heart was pounding. 

“You looked so pretty with your cheek pressed to my foot,” Tony said softly, tightening his grip on Steve’s neck. His tone was almost pensive. “I think I’d like to see you this way more often.”

Steve shuddered. 

Tony’s hand pressed heavily against his throat for a few long moments before moving to push down on his left shoulder, encouraging Steve to shift his weight off his neck. (Better.) Tony stroked Steve’s hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. 

“And just so we’re clear, this is for me, Steve.” Tony pressed a kiss to Steve’s neck then whispered, hot and rough into Steve’s ear: “Spread your legs.” 

All the air seemed to rush from Steve’s lungs in a desperate ‘whoosh’ that left him feeling half dizzy with lust. He struggled awkwardly to obey, shuffling his knees further apart. The motions pressed him heavily into the cushion and made his wrists pull against Tony’s belt. 

“That’s it,” Tony said. Tony ran his hand down Steve’s spine, maintaining contact as he knelt behind him. 

“Beautiful,” Tony murmured. He ran his hands up and down Steve’s back, his sides, then grasped his hips for a second before starting to kneed and pinch at Steve’s ass. Steve’s cock leapt and throbbed, his balls heavy between his legs as he struggled not to move. (Good. Be good. . . )

Steve heard the ‘snick’ of the lube opening up and his heart leapt. Tony’s slick finger was circling his hole, a gentle caress. With his other hand, Tony was stroking his back, his thighs, with light fingertips. It was warm in the workshop, but Steve shivered. Tony was clearly in no hurry. 

After what seemed like ages, Tony dragged his fingernails down Steve’s back with one hand and finally _finally_ pressed a finger into Steve’s hole. Steve gasped. 

“Look at you, bent over, bound up,” Tony said. He eased his finger in and out, torturously slowly. “Look at you, clenching around my finger for me. So tight, baby.” 

Tony’s finger slid deeper, caressing him inside, then pulled out to move in a slow circle around his rim then press in again. Steve moaned and spread his legs a little wider, desperate for more. 

Tony chuckled. “So eager, aren’t you, baby?” 

Tony pressed a kiss to Steve’s ass and gave him a little nip, then bit and sucked. Tony added another finger, and Steve let out a long, deep moan at the stretch. Tony bit down harder and Steve’s cock jerked and a jolt of pleasure ran through his body. Tony spread his fingers wide, pulling him open, then pressed in and out, in and out. He touched _that place,_ sending sparks through Steve’s body and making him gasp, again and again.

Steve was panting heavily onto the cushion, his body burning and open and exposed, but he needed _more_. (Oh God, please, please, please. . .) Steve jerked back desperately onto Tony’s fingers, needing it harder, deeper, more. 

Tony grabbed his hip and squeezed _hard_ , his fingernails digging in as he held Steve still, fingers still deep in Steve’s body.

“No,” Tony said, voice stern and hard. Steve held his breath. “No taking what you want; you only get to take what I give you. Understood?”

Steve just gasped and twitched, he couldn’t seem to answer. He was burning, his heart was pounding, he--

“Hey, you with me, babe?” Tony asked, voice a little softer. 

Steve swallowed heavily and took a deep breath, then whispered, “Yes, Tony.”

“Good boy.” Tony released Steve’s hip then leaned over to sooth the sharp little fingernail marks he’d left, kissing and licking the sensitive skin. “I’ve got you,” Tony whispered. And with that, Steve could feel everything sliding away. (Tony’s in charge. He’s got me. Everything’s good.) Steve’s arousal was still tight and heavy, but his muscles felt lax at the same time. Tony would give him what he wanted—was giving him what he wanted, because he was doing what he wanted with Steve. (Good, so good.) 

Tony started moving his fingers again, in and out, mumbling soft filthy praise for Steve’s eager little hole, the words and caresses sending little sparks of joy through Steve’s body. He lost track of time.

“What do you think, baby?” Tony said throatily. “Can you take another?”

Steve just let out a long, deep moan and Tony added another finger. It ached so perfectly, deep and hot and good. Everything felt so wonderful. There was only one thing that could be better, that could--

“Oh, God,” Steve gasped, suddenly finding his voice. “Tony, _please_. I want you so bad. Please, take me.” Steve was panting into the cushions, words pouring out effortlessly. Tony’s fingers moved in and out, in and out, fucking him and he spiraled higher and higher. . . “Ah! _Fuck me_. I want your cock in me so bad. Want to be yours completely, feel you deep inside me, taking me. _Please,_ I—”

“Shhh, baby,” Tony said. “Hush.” 

“Please, Tony, I--”

Tony stopped moving his fingers and Steve bit his lip to stay quiet.

“Steve, I’m using you how I want,” Tony said in that commanding voice that made Steve shiver. “No begging.” Tony stroked his back, firm heavy touches. 

Steve shuddered and fell silent. (Good, being good for Tony. Shh. Hush.) Tony was pressing his fingers in and out again, touching off more dizzying sparks. And it was good, so good, but didn’t Tony want him? Wouldn’t it be better for Tony to be fucking him, shoving his cock deep inside Steve, feeling Steve clench all around him and— Was Tony really doing what he wanted to? Why-- Steve tried to push those thoughts aside, keep floating. 

(It’s good. Don’t worry—I don’t have to worry. Tony’s using me how he wants and that’s good. Be good.) 

“You’re so gorgeous, like this. So _obedient_ ,” Tony murmured. “Good boy.” 

Steve let out a long sigh and sank back into it. 

Tony moved in and out, thrusting _hard_ into Steve’s body. Steve’s thighs quivered. He was moaning steadily. Heat was coiled tight in his stomach, his whole body hot and aching.

“Look at you. You take it so well,” Tony said, voice low and filthy. “You’re cock’s dripping, and you’re all loose and wet back here, letting me fuck you.” 

(Ah! Oh God.)

“Bet you could come just like this, couldn’t you baby? Getting finger fucked, bending over and taking it. Bet I don’t even need to touch you, do I?”

Tony thrust his fingers in faster and harder. Steve panted wetly onto the cushion. 

“Go on, baby. Come for me.” 

Steve let out a pained moan. (Oh God, oh God, almost, almost, almost.) Tony was still thrusting, brushing against his prostate. Steve held his breath—he wanted to come so badly, and Tony had told him to and he wanted to obey, but it wasn’t quite, he needed— 

Tony said to come and he hadn’t yet. A wave of anxiety washed through him and his breathing sped. (He told you to! Go on!) Steve shivered and felt a hot rush of humiliation. (Obey. You want to!) Steve closed his eyes tight and strained, still panting, but he couldn’t, he wasn’t—

“Shhhh,” Tony mumbled, rubbing his back. “It’s okay. You have permission. When you’re ready, okay?”

Tony thrust again and ran his other hand up and down Steve’s back. A tear escaped from the corner of Steve’s eye and rolled hot down his cheek. (Ah!)

“You’re so beautiful, so good for me. Look at you. Do you have any idea what you do to me?” 

Tony reached under Steve to tweak first his right nipple, then his left. The little jolts of pain made Steve whimper and twitch. 

“Was that good?” Tony asked huskily. 

“Y-yes!” 

Tony pinched him again. (Ah!)

“Good boy, taking what I give you.”

At the first touch of Tony’s hand on his cock, Steve cried out and came, whimpering and shuddering, his ass clenching tight on Tony’s fingers.

“Beautiful, so fucking beautiful,” Tony murmured. Steve was still shivering with orgasm as Tony eased his fingers free and pulled Steve to his knees. Tony stood facing Steve, legs spread and cock dripping.

“I’m gonna fuck your face now,” Tony growled. 

Steve’s mouth fell open immediately and Tony pressed his cock inside. 

“Oh, yeah, gonna take you while you’re all soft and loose, ‘cause you're mine.” Steve’s mouth watered as he tongued at Tony’s dick. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked. 

“So gorgeous like this. Oh fuck! Steve!” 

Tony fisted Steve’s hair and made Steve shudder, pleasure coursing through him. His orgasm, Tony’s coarse words, the fist in his hair, the cock in his mouth—everything loose and warm and floating. (Yes, Tony, yes!) 

“Soon, baby,” Tony moaned, voice rough. “Soon I’ll be fucking your throat. Gonna get you a dildo to practice on, like I said, and you’ll take it and take it ‘cause you love this, don’t you baby?”

(Yes, yes, yes!)

Tony pushed his dick into Steve’s mouth, with fast, shallow thrusts. He bumped the back of Steve’s throat, again and again, but didn’t push inside, didn’t choke him. Steve was so relaxed, it took him a moment to realize that he hadn’t even gagged. Everything felt good. The filthy-wet sound of cocksucking was loud in Steve’s ears; he sucked harder and let out a muffled moan.

“Oh, fuck, Steve! Yeah, suck my cock, you—” Tony bit his lip and groaned, flooding Steve’s mouth with come in long, hot pulses. Steve swallowed it eagerly, laving Tony’s dick with his tongue. Tony stood over him, cock softening in Steve’s mouth, gently petting Steve’s head. 

“That was good,” Tony murmured. “So good, baby.” He pulled away for a moment then pressed Steve’s head against his stomach, just holding him there and scratching his scalp lightly. Tony was shivering.

Tony dropped to his knees and kissed Steve softly and sweetly on the lips, then unbuckled his belt to release Steve’s wrists. Tony grabbed a blanket and pulled Steve down onto the cushions next to him. The blanket was scratchy wool and smelled a little like motor oil, but that didn’t seem like a bad thing. Steve felt sated and calm and warm. He let out a deep, contented sigh.

“S-so good for me, Steve,” Tony said softly, still shivering a little. “So beautiful. . . I’ve got you . . . I’m right here.”

Steve pressed soft kisses to Tony’s forehead, his cheeks, his chin, then drew back to give Tony a lazy smile. Steve pulled Tony close and held him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!


	12. Chapter 12

Tony was shivering. It didn’t make sense. Why was he shivering? 

Steve pulled Tony close, nuzzling that spot where neck meets shoulder, murmuring ‘I love you’s against Tony’s skin. Tony swallowed heavily, carding his fingers through Steve’s hair. 

“I’ve got you, baby,” Tony whispered roughly. It was like the wind had been knocked out of him. His body felt wrung out. “You were so good for me, so perfect. . . . So strong, taking what I give you. . . . shhh, so good.”

Steve let out a little humming noise and tightened his grasp on Tony as they lay chest to chest, circled in each other’s arms, fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. (Oh fuck. _Steve_.) The minutes drifted by, filled with little caresses and murmurings, warm skin against skin. Tony listened as Steve’s breathing evened out, slipping easily into the steady rhythm of sleep. Tony shifted a little so he could look at Steve’s sleep-softened expression, marveling at how quickly Steve could go from subspace to sleep. 

(It’s because he feels safe. _With you_.) 

Tony’s breath caught and he gave another little shiver. ( _Steve looking up at him, face flushed, so open and desperate, wanting whatever Tony’d give him. . ._ ) Tony’d felt . . . _powerful_. Like Steve could fit in the palm of his hand, and Tony could crush him or burn him up, consume him with the force of their coupling, and even if Tony broke him _he’d like it_. He’d felt invincible, body humming like a live wire. Tony swallowed thickly and wet his lips. 

Tony’d designed the scene to prove a point, to show Steve how unmistakably he wanted all this. And he did. But to show that to Steve he’d let himself get swept up in it, let himself push harder, farther. Because he did want it. He wanted everything he’d told Steve and more. Much more he realized— he’d had to choke some of it back before he scared Steve. Or maybe himself. 

(I want to flog you until your skin turns red and you’re twitching and whimpering . . . I want to spank you across my lap until you’re crying and begging, for mercy or for more, you don’t even know which and—)

Tony took a deep breath. He could smell Steve’s sweat, hints of his shampoo, the heady smell of sex hanging in the air.

(I want to paint you with my cum, mark you up, ‘cause you’re _mine_. Grab you by the hair and take you wherever I want, whenever I want . . . gonna call you my filthy cocksucker,a pretty whore. You perfect slut.)

Tony closed his eyes, breathing heavily. He held back, of course— he had to be careful of Steve, be good to him, go slowly. (Oh fuck, he’s inexperienced! Don’t rush. There’s time.) Steve’s past was a network of landmines Tony was terrified to step on. (Nothing that sounds like a slur, stupid. He’s heard enough insults. And why the fuck do you want to call your boyfriend a whore, anyway?)

Tony swallowed again, throat dry. 

Steve’s panic that Tony wasn’t getting anything out of their kinky sex (absurd!) had been the permission he’d needed. Tony had poured out more dirty talk, fucking Steve’s mouth hard and filthy, pushing him rougher, using his hard edges on Steve. And, oh fuck, the way Steve had trembled under him when he’d gripped his jaw just a little too hard, or put a hint of steel in his voice. The way Steve quivered when Tony scratched and bit at him, left a trail of red marks across his back, the way he’d bucked and moaned when Tony pinched his nipples . . . (Oh fuck!) Steve took it so beautifully and wanted more, wanted it desperately, fiercely, urgently; the realization had left Tony just as desperate, half-dizzy and overwhelmed. 

Tony was startled from his thoughts by one of Dummy’s familiar little chirps. (10% volume; good bot.) Tony opened his eyes and smiled at the sight of Dummy with a large bottle of Smart Water extended in his claw. 

“Good boy,” Tony whispered as he shuffled up carefully, trying not to wake Steve. He drank the water greedily, throat parched, and realized suddenly he hadn’t cleaned Steve up. Hadn’t given him any water before he fell asleep. Cup and washcloth were unused next to the cushions. Tony frowned and tried not to worry about it. He hadn’t exactly forgotten he just . . . hadn’t done it right away. He’d felt shaken apart after he came and Steve had pulled Tony into his arms as if he knew exactly what Tony needed. (Sometimes, it’s like that man’s an empath.) And then Steve had drifted off so quickly. . .

Steve let out a hazy little mumble and shifted in his sleep. Tony tossed aside the water bottle and settled back down again, nestling close. He needed to call Pepper back. (Again. Ugh.) And he’d have to talk to Whatshisface for her. McNeil! Yeah. And he really needed to figure out how to recycle that tech. He’d start with the motherboards. No, the display screens. Wait, better yet, the keyboards since touch screens and voice commands would soon be phasing out old school keyboards. He should--

Steve let out a little sigh, breath warm on Tony’s shoulder. Tony concentrated on the warmth of Steve’s body, the rise and fall of his chest. (He loves me.) Maybe a little nap wouldn’t hurt. Just for a few minutes.

***

_November 2, 2012_

Deputy Commander Hill had the most perfect poker face. (Besides Natasha, of course, but Natasha’s a friend now so it’s not the same). It always made Steve a little uneasy. Maybe she was still angry that he’d called her “ma’am” the first time they’d met? 

Steve tried very hard to be professional and not let her impassivity get to him. (Is it a test?) Somehow it was scarier on her than it was on Fury. Steve took a deep breath and focused on his training report. 

“Other than that,” Steve concluded, “I’d say they’re doing well. Basic strategy is strong. Excellent marksmanship and hand-to-hand. Reflexes are good, though I’m sure Agent Romanov would be more critical than I am. Maybe bring her in for a day too. For the most part, they all did well on tactics, with the exception of Anderson. I put it in my write-up.” Steve shook his head. “He didn’t factor civilians and team safety into his plan. Consistently. It wasn’t a race against a ticking bomb or something—he could have included a safety factor and didn’t.” 

Hill nodded, flipping through his write-ups with a frown. 

“What about Liu?” Hill asked looking up, a little glint in her eyes.

“Best of the lot from what I’ve seen.” She raised an eyebrow. Steve paused and gave a little shrug. “Uh, not sure how valuable my opinion on this stuff is as an outsider, but she’s got all the technical skills in her favor, it’s there in the report, and--” Steve hesitated, “if you don’t mind my saying, I think she’s got a real command presence and raw instincts. And that can’t be taught. If you put her in charge of a squad on the next rotation, I wouldn’t think it was too soon. I think she’d handle it really well. I’m not sure any of the others are command ready.” 

Hill looked at him approvingly. (Was _that_ a test?) She nodded and gave him something almost like a smile. “It’s good having you. The junior agents and trainees like your style. We thought celebrity might get in the way of the job, but they seem to find your presence _inspiring_.” The way she said it seemed almost like an insult, but he couldn’t be sure. “We could use you again next week, if you’re interested.”

“I’d like that very much.”

“Good.” She held out her hand and Steve shook it, holding back a sigh. Hill was one of those people who always clenched his hand too hard, like she was proving a point.

“Thank you, Captain Rogers.”

“Deputy Hill.”

Steve took his leave. He still hated the main SHEILD facility. It had felt like a prison within a prison when he first woke up in the 21st century and even now all the lights felt just a little too bright, the corridors just a little too narrow. The open floor plan at Stark Tower had been an immediate relief, even if the furniture had felt too cold and the size of it somehow wasteful. 

Steve smiled and sped his steps. He wanted to go home. (Home! It actually feels like home.)

“Captain Rogers?” a voice called out, light and musical. 

Steve held in a sigh. He stopped and waited while a young woman walked quickly down the corridor to catch up with him. She was very beautiful, like a film star, with perfect white teeth, glossy red hair, and a luminous complexion. Actually, she looked a little like Ms Potts, though her figure was more of an hourglass. She was built like a pinup girl from back in his day and just as pretty. The thought made Steve uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.

“Veronica James, right?” 

“Yes, sir. But, just Veronica, please.” 

He nodded politely and replied, “Steve.”

Her face lit up. “Steve,” she repeated. “We, that is, some of the other SHEILD trainees and I were going to go out this evening. Just drinks, maybe some dancing and karaoke, and we, well, _I_ was hoping you would join us.” 

(Oh shit!) 

Whatever she saw on Steve’s face made her rush on, “I checked regulations, sir. _Steve_. Since you’re only teaching enrichment modules and aren’t our CO it wouldn’t be against regulations. And, I, uh,” her voice dropped, shy or coy he couldn’t tell, “I’d really like to get to know you.” 

Steve’s heart was pounding, frantic and guilty. 

“Ms. James,” Steve said and she immediately slumped. “Uh, Veronica. I don’t— I mean, I really can’t. I have--” ( _A boyfriend._ I love him.) “—plans. I’m sorry.” She perked up a little. (Shit, shit, shit!) Steve added hastily, “And, regulations or no, I wouldn’t feel comfortable.” 

She was making that face Tony made—the “disappointed or maybe hurt, but would rather die than let you know it” look. Steve tried to give her a little smile as he added, “And, trust me, I’m really not as interesting as people think. Dead boring in clubs.” She was frowning just slightly, maybe preparing a rebuttal, so Steve rushed on, “But, thank you for the invitation anyway. Have a wonderful evening.” 

Steve fled, heart pounding and palms sweating. 

***

“Sir, Colonel Rhodes is on the line.”

“M-rodey!” Tony mumbled around the screwdriver in his mouth. “Mmm-hm-tru!” 

“I’ll interpret that as ‘put him through,’ shall I sir?”

Tony spat out the screwdriver and frowned as it rolled off the workbench with a clatter. “Smartass,” Tony muttered. He heard the line connect and called out, “Sugar pie, honeybunch!” as he crawled under the bench for his screwdriver.

“Tony.” Rhodey sounded solemn. 

“So serious, pudding pie. No Tones? No pet names? No insults? Hey, you okay?” Tony climbed out from under the bench and looked up at the display panel. Rhodey had a black eye, a split lip, and a neat row of stitches at his temple. Tony felt a cold wash of dread run through him. “Shit.” 

(Rhodey’s fine. He’s right there. He’s talking to you. He’s fine. Fine, fine, _fine_.)

Tony took a deep breath. “What happened?”

Rhodey shook his head. “You know I can’t tell you that.”

“Bullshit.” Tony climbed onto his stood and leaned close to the screen, peering at Rhodey’s face. He rolled his eyes.

“Tony, I’m fine. Just a little banged up.” 

Tony gestured to his face. “That the worst of it?” 

“Yeah. Course it is.” He’s lying, but Tony won’t call him on it. (Yet.) “The suit took most of the damage.” 

“Good. What the fuck, man? You’re not supposed to get hurt. I made you a suit so you _wouldn’t get hurt_. I can’t--”

“Ha! And then I come to you for repairs and you bitch about damage to the suit, you dick.” 

“Yeah, well, neither of you are supposed to get hurt! How bad is it? Did they at least manage to shoot off some of those ridiculous guns?”

“This again? Dude, the guns are dope--”

“You mean, dopey. Awkward? Unbalanced? Detrimental to flight speed?”

“—and the guns say, ‘I mean business. I will blow your shit up!’”

“No, they say, ‘I’m overcompensating’ and ‘I can’t get myshit up.’ ” 

“Ha fucking ha.”

They stared at each other for a few moments. The familiar bitching had calmed Tony’s heart-rate a little, but his throat still felt tight. It had been a long time since Rhodey’d been hurt. Tony had started taking his safety for granted. (Stupid. Stupid.) 

“Well, if you come out, I’ll see what I can--”

“I’m landing in New York tonight and if you could--”

They chuckled. “Yeah,” Rhodey said with a wry smile. “Hell, I’m tempted to say it’s all your fault, Tones!”

“Me!?!”

“Sure. Well, mostly the Air Force. I mean, if the only time they let me off to come visit you is when my suit’s shot to hell, what kind of message are they sending me?” 

Tony grinned. “So it was your love for me that drove you into harm’s way?”

“Totally.” 

“That’s sweet. And bullshit, asshole, but sweet bullshit so whatever. Fine, I’ll fix the damn suit. But I’ll take my time about it.” Tony hesitated. “I’ve missed you. It’ll be good to catch up.” (Steve! Tell him about Steve!) Tony shook himself. “Good repairs are meticulous! So no hurrying in and hurrying out!”

Rhodey raised a palm in a gesture of surrender. 

“No rush, Tony. I’m--” Rhodey shifted and let out a little wince, then gave a wry little smile. “Seriously, man. No rush.”

“Roger that. See you soon. Over and out.” 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! Your encouragement is cherished. Hopefully, there will be more soon! xoxo


	13. flashback (bonus scene)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Steve met Rhodey for the first time. Set a year and a half prior to the current Surrender timeline.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've poked and fiddled with this flashback thing for a while and, at this point, it maybe should just be its own story, but well, here it is anyway. There's Rhodey! And Steve/Tony pre-slash... Hope you like it!

FLASHBACK

_Avengers Tower, 2011 (roughly a year and a half ago…about a month after “In the Bleak Midwinter”…)_

The officer in the kitchen outranked him; Steve snapped to attention. (Some reflexes never go away, apparently.) Steve swallowed. The colonel was standing in profile, very handsome with dark skin, broad shoulders and a strong jaw. (Handsome? Stop it. You shouldn’t think like that.) Steve shook his head.

(Are the Avengers subject to snap inspection? Does Avenger’s Tower count as being on base or a private home? Shit.)

“Sir,” Steve said briskly, and saluted. The man turned and his eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“Oh, hey,” Tony said, popping up suddenly from behind the counter with two fancy beer glasses. “Rhodey, Cap. Cap, Rhodey.”

Steve blinked. Tony’s face went tight. (Rhodey? This was the Colonel Rhodes from Tony’s stories?) Steve blinked again. He was, uh, nothing like Steve had pictured.

(Tony hadn’t _said_ Rhodey was—)

. . . .

_“Uh, we say ‘black’ now, Cap.”_

_“Really?” Steve had looked at him dubiously, “Sounds . . . rude, somehow.”_

_Tony’d laughed and shaken his head. “Nope. Trust me.” Tony’d paused then added, “Though, you can go with African American, ya know, if ‘black’ still sounds weird. But ‘negro’ is pretty much out, old timer.”_

. . . . .

(Huh.) Steve realized he’d pictured Rhodey as looking almost exactly like Tony. (Only with a buzz cut. And no goatee. Weird.) He shook off the dissolving mental image.

Steve smiled and stepped forward to offer his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

Colonel Rhodes, who (thank God!) had been looking a little startled himself, smiled back and shook Steve’s hand.

“I’ve heard a lot about you from Tony,” Steve said.

“And the whole world’s heard a lot about Captain America,” Rhodes said, eyes bright, then added, “It’s an honor to meet you.”

“Uh, thank you, sir,” Steve said awkwardly. He put his hands in his pockets.

Rhodes made a face. “And, drop the ‘sir.’” He shook his head. “Can’t have Captain America calling me ‘sir.’”

“Steve,” Steve corrected.

Rhodes grinned and nodded. “Rhodey.”

“I didn’t know you were coming, sir. Uh, _Rhodey_.” The nickname felt strange in his mouth, like it didn’t belong there. 

Rhodes shrugged. “Yeah, neither did Tony. I’ve just got a few hours in New York. Was supposed to ship out through D.C., but got rerouted here.”

“Where are you headed, s—” Steve barely bit down the ‘sir.’

Rhodes' eyes darted to Tony for a moment as he answered, voice perfectly even, “Afghanistan.”

The word hovered in the air for a moment before Rhodes continued, “But going through D.C. sucks and I hardly ever get to see Tony these days. So when I scored some time in New York at the last minute, I figured I’d use the layover to visit my favorite billionaire genius.” He threw an arm around Tony’s shoulders in a rough pseudo-hug.

“Favorite?” Tony squawked, shoving him away. “You mean there are others? You’ve been running around with other billionaires behind my back? You cheating cad!”

Rhodes rolled his eyes and let out a little snort, but Tony was warming to the theme. He poked Rhodes in the chest, then gasped and drew back with wide-eyed horror.

“It’s Warren Buffet, isn’t it? I’ll destroy Berkshire-Hathaway!” Tony paused dramaticaly, then asked, “Or is it the genius part? ‘cause Stephen Hawking isn’t as smart as people think he is! Neither’s Selvig!”

“Jealous, Tony?” Rhodes asked. He leaned his hip against the kitchen counter and smirked.

“Damn straight!” Tony waved his hands. “That’s it, asshole. You’re cut off. No more gadgets!”

Rhodey grinned, “You know you don’t mean that. Nobody appreciates your genius like me.”

Steve bit his lip and hovered. (I really should go. I don’t belong here.)

“Nope!” Tony cried. “Done. Done! Until you declare me your one and only, there will be no more gadgets.”

“When was the last time you gave me gadgets anyhow?” Tony let out another little squawk. “And you still won’t give me more guns.”

“Guns on the suit are an abomination!”

“You mean _awesome_.”

“I mean _abomination_ , you dick. Seriously, it’s like--” And Tony was off and running. They settled into the argument like it was old and comfortable, familiar like the bickering.

Steve watched them, the easy back and forth, the playful hints of rough housing-- it was all so achingly familiar. Steve’s eyes were stinging. His face was hot, but the rest of his body felt cold.

( _Bucky_. . . )

“—so that’s why _no guns_! In fact, no nothing. Not if you’re gonna be a cheating bastard.”

Steve found it hard to breathe; his heart was pounding and his throat was tight.

“Aw, Tones. You know you’re the only genius in my life.”

“You mean that, right, pudding pie?”

“Sure, muffin top.”

(Just breathe. In. Out.)

“What!? A backhanded endearment? From you?” Tony ran his hands down his body. “Also, fyi, I do not have muffin tops, you little dick!”

“Little? Seriously? ‘cause I’m pretty sure we’ve had this contest before.”

“Motion, ocean, Rhodey baby.”

Steve has no idea what they’re talking about.

(I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t _be here_ at all.)

Rhodes was shaking his head and chuckling. He nodded over to Steve, then back at Tony and asked, “Seriously? Can you believe this guy?”

Feeling numb, Steve shook his head. (That’s the right response, isn’t it? I don’t even know.) There was a little beep from the freezer and Rhodes turned to open it.

“What’s with this ‘layover’ bullshit anyway, Rhodey?” Tony demanded as Rhodes took out the now-frosted glasses. “If you’d just fly the suit I made you, you could stay till tomorrow and still beat the rest of them there.”

“You know they don’t like me flying War Machine outside missions.”

“But flying’s fun!”

“Sure is, but it’s called a ‘command structure,’ Tones.”

“Huh,” Tony pretended to consider it, stroking his chin, then shrugged. “Sounds terrible. Tell them to suck it.”

Rhodes rolled his eyes and turned towards Steve again with a wry smile, saying, “Tony may have some issues with authority, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Steve nodded. His mouth was dry as he tried to swallow around the damn lump in his throat. Now Tony had turned to look at him too. He wanted to disappear.

“Are you okay?” Tony asked, brow creased.

(Oh God, so embarrassing . . . )

“Yeah,” Steve said, voice rough. He cleared his throat. “Of course.”

“We were just about to have a beer in the sun room,” Rhodes said. “You should join us. I’ll grab another--”

“No, I--” Steve’s heart was pounding. “I couldn’t intrude and--”

“Nonsense! It’s good to finally meet you and—”

“—I really have to go.”

Tony looked like he couldn’t decide between pissed and worried. Rhodes frowned and gave Steve a considering look for a long moment, then his expression went soft.

Steve’s hands were shaking.

“No problem, Steve,” Rhodes said gently. “I get it. Some other time.” Rhodes hesitated. “If you change your mind, though, and want company, we’ve got a beer with your name on it.”

Tony gave Rhodes a curious look. 

“Thank you,” Steve said haltingly. “Nice meeting you, sir. Rhodey. I’ll just--” Steve felt like he should say something else, but instead he fled with another quiet, “Thanks.”

Steve left the common area so fast he was practically running, holding his breath until he turned the corner.

Behind him, Steve's sensitive hearing picked out the sound of Tony muttering something very quietly, then Rhodes' louder reply: _"Let it go, Tony. Did you see him? Man’s been through a lot—let him lick his wounds in private, okay?"_ Rhodes' voice faded as Steve put distance between them.

Steve took the stairs down to his floor as fast as he could, slammed the door and slumped back against it. He was making these horrible gasping noises, like he had asthma again. Steve slid to the floor and pulled his knees up to his chest. His cheeks were wet. He shivered.

By the time Steve resurfaced, Rhodes was long gone.

***

_The next morning…_

5 am in Avengers’ Tower. 

Steve was in the shared kitchen eating breakfast, just a couple of slices of toast and a plain cup of coffee. Something light and easy. He’d had a glass of orange juice earlier. Even after six months in the twenty-first century, daily orange juice still felt like an amazing luxury. 

“Hey, Cap,” Tony said from the doorway. There was something flat in his tone. Steve felt his face heat up with embarrassment. (You made a damn fool of yourself yesterday, Rogers, and you both know it.) 

Steve clenched his coffee cup in both hands. He couldn’t quite make himself turn around. 

“Hi, Tony,” he said to his plate. “You’re up early.”

“You mean late.” Tony sauntered into the kitchen. He went straight for the coffee machine and poured himself a cup. “I went to the workshop after Rhodey left. Haven’t made it to bed yet.” 

Steve nodded and had another sip of coffee. He should go back to his rooms. Or out for a run. Or-- 

“What was going on with you yesterday?” Tony asked. His voice felt just a little too loud. 

“Yesterday? What do you mean? I--” Steve’s heart started pounding. “N-nothing.” 

“Bullshit,” Tony said and his voice had a hard edge. Steve looked up, startled. Tony’s gaze was cold. Steve stared at him, feeling helpless. (Are you going to mock me for being so weak? I was, I know. I’m trying to be strong, but it’s hard and I--) It felt like Steve had had his legs cut out from under him. 

For all his faults, Tony had never struck him as cruel. 

Lately, he’d been so kind.

The change was disorienting.

“That’s bullshit,” Tony repeated, taking a step closer. For a second Steve thought Tony was going to jab him in the chest, but not playfully like he had with Rhodes. “You were being weird. And you wouldn’t have a drink with us.” 

(But, why are you _angry_? I don’t--)

“You’ve drunk with _me_ before,” Tony added darkly. 

Steve stared for a moment, then felt like he’d been slapped. 

“What?!” Steve’s mouth dropped and he looked at Tony in shock for a second, then clamped his jaw shut. 

“ _That_ ’s what you thought? That’s what you think of me?” Steve bit out. “That I’m some sort of bigot?” He got off the barstool and his sharp, jerking motions nearly sending it toppling. Anger made him clumsy. But it wasn’t just anger.

Steve added, helplessly as he turned away, “I thought--” but couldn’t finish the sentence. 

(-- you were starting to _know_ me.) And it hurt, a sharp twisting pain, to realize he’d been wrong and there was still no one. (Oh God, Rogers. You’re so fucking pathetic.)

“Wait!”

Steve was fleeing the kitchen all over again and, clearly, he should just lock himself in his rooms and never—

“Steve!” Tony’s hand closed around his arm, but Steve shook him off, hard. He sent Tony stumbling with the force of it. 

“Shit!” Steve cussed. “I’m sorry!” (Fuck, Rogers, you have to be _careful_. You’re too damn strong not to keep control.)

Tony caught his balance and righted himself. “It’s okay,” Tony said. “It’s fine.”

They stared at each other. Steve’s chest was heaving. Tony sighed.

“Look, I’m sorry, all right?” Tony said, making a placating little gesture with his hands. “I got it wrong and I’m sorry.” 

Steve felt raw, all bruised up. He gave a tight nod.

“No reason to abandon your coffee,” Tony said, retrieving their mugs from the counter. “My bad.” 

Tony held out the mug like Steve might bite. Steve accepted it even though he didn’t want coffee anymore. He had a sick, sinking feeling. 

“Tony? Did Colonel Rhodes think--? ”

“Nah,” Tony shook his head and let out a little snort. He waved his hand. “I’m the one who got it wrong. Rhodey said it was fine and to leave you alone. That you were just a soldier having a bad day and it had nothing to do with us.” 

Steve felt a wave of relief and smiled just a little. “Smart man,” he murmured. 

“Yeah. Smarter than me sometimes.” Tony shuffled and bit his lip; on anyone other than Tony Stark it would look like ‘awkward’ or maybe ‘nervous.’ 

“Look, would you sit down? Just for a minute?” He paused. “I really am sorry, you know.” 

Steve blinked and, having no good reason not to, followed Tony to the couch. 

“It’s fine,” Steve said, starting to feel embarrassed now that the anger-adrenaline was fading. He felt drained. “I, uh, overreacted.” 

“Maybe,” Tony shrugged, “but I was a dick.” Tony fidgeted. “You were acting strange though.”

Tony took a gulp of coffee like it was Dutch courage, then asked, “Seriously, are you all right?”

“No.”

Tony just looked at him, so _shocked_ , that Steve felt hysterical laughter bubbling up inside him. Tony had so clearly expected him to lie and now had no idea what to say. 

“Yeah,” Tony fumbled, “I get that, uh—” And it was somehow delightful to see Tony Stark, so slick and suave, completely at a loss, frowning, mouth opening and closing.

“It’s okay not to be okay,” Tony said finally. A pause. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

Tony nodded and took another gulp of coffee. Steve’s coffee had gone cold, but he took a sip anyway to have something to do. They sat in silence on the couch. Steve stared straight ahead, out the huge windows as the sun came up over New York. The rosy-fingered dawn. They drank their coffee silently, but the silence was starting to itch, a tense scratchy feeling, and nature abhors a vacuum.

“His name was Bucky,” Steve said suddenly, half-surprising himself, “my best friend growing up.” 

Tony turned to look at him, eyebrows raised, expression surprised and curious, but nervous too. (This _thing_ between them, it’s like a skittish animal that could bolt any second. Or bite.)

Steve continued, words halting forth, like they were being squeezed out of him somehow. 

“He was like my brother. We did everything together and he did his best to look after me. I was a mess most of the time.” 

Steve smiled just a little. 

“He was a real tough talker, Bucky, sharp-tongued and we’d give each other hell. Rough housed too-- he always took it easy on me, but pretended not to. I was frail then, you know, and too proud for my own good.” The noise Steve made was half-chuckle, half-choking. Steve shook his head. “The scrapes we got into! But Bucky always got us out. . .” 

(Until he couldn’t. Until I let him down.)

Steve took a deep breath.

“You and Rhodes-- _Rhodey_ \-- you were--” Steve’s throat closed. The well had run dry, but a glance at Tony made it clear he didn’t need to say another word. 

Tony was giving him this stricken look, but it wasn’t pity, not really. More like he was imagining it. Imagining his friend, his own Rhodey, dead and gone and how it would hurt, and for a moment he understood just a little. 

Tony closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Then another.

“Hey, it’s Saturday, isn’t it?” Tony asked. Steve gave him a blank look, then nodded. 

Tony waved at the TV. “That means Saturday morning cartoons. Hey, JARVIS? Hit it! Oh, and get brunch delivered from that place—whatsit on 9th—the whole shebang. Hash browns, bacon, eggs, French toast. Three of everything.” 

“Of course, sir.” 

Tony nodded as Bugs Bunny filled the massive TV screen. 

“Saturday morning cartoons are the _best_ ,” Tony said seriously. 

Then, without looking away, he reached over and gave Steve a shove. Hard.

It made Steve spill his coffee. He didn't really mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Public Service Announcement! 
> 
> Now's your chance to get some beautiful art from the very talented LePeru! She is currently accepting commissions to help her through a bit of a tough time. (http://leperu.livejournal.com/3038.html) I've ordered a couple of illustrations for the Surrender series and am very excited! She's really, really amazing. So, if there are any illustrations you've been longing to have, please consider helping her out. (Not that I'm selfishly hoping for more Surrender art or anything.... yeah. :-)
> 
> Anyway, hard at work on chapter 13! It's been giving me trouble, but I hope to have it up soon... We'll back to present day Steve, Tony, and Rhodey. Woo! Thanks for reading! Hope you liked this! (And, yeah, poor Steve....)


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! My mom has a cameo in this chapter! Yay! (I couldn't resist....) :-)
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to Ms Sparks, in gratitude for her help with chapter 13.

_Note: I added a second scene to chapter 13, so if you missed it, maybe take a moment to go back and read it before continuing with chapter 14. Thanks!  
_

_***  
_

_Present Day_

Steve left SHIELD as fast as he could and hopped on his bike. His heart was pounding and his palms were sweating. 

(Seriously? You’re running from that girl like she’s a fire-breathing demon. Absurd.) 

He took a few deep calming breaths and fired the engine, forcing himself to concentrate on the road. He was heading to the Tower on autopilot before he realized he wasn’t ready to go back yet. He needed someplace quiet to think, so he could clear his head for a minute. Not his space; _their_ space. (Not home.) And definitely not someplace people might recognize him and make a fuss . . . 

Steve changed lanes. Decision made, he felt a little calmer already.

St. Michael’s was beautiful in the late afternoon light. It wasn’t the oldest church or the most majestic, not by far, but there was something cozy about it. Like a humble country church nested in the big city. Steve had even drawn it a few times, just the architecture, in clean simple lines.*

Steve thought about visiting the gardens first, but wanted to get away from even the moderate street noise. The plain, wooden double-doors were unlocked; it was during tour hours. 

Steve stepped inside quietly, easing the door shut behind him. 

“Welcome to St. Michael’s,” a woman’s voice said softly. “Just let me know if you’d like a tour or any information about the architecture or our ministries. I’d be happy to— Oh! Steve!”

“Hello, Meredith.” 

The lady smiling up at him was in her sixties, barely five feet tall and hardly a hundred pounds, her long graying hair pulled back in a loose bun. 

“How are you?” Steve asked as he leaned down—way down—to give her a very gentle hug. 

“Oh, I’m quite well,” she said lightly. “Arthritis acting up a little, but nothing to complain about. You?”

“Pretty good,” Steve said with a shrug. “Just . . . needed some quiet. To clear my head.” 

Meredith smiled and patted his arm. “I’ll leave you to your thoughts then. Oh! There’s honey gingerbread in the vestry if you want some.”

“Yours?” She nodded and Steve grinned. “Wouldn’t miss it.” 

Steve took a seat in a pew about half-way to the main altar and looked up at the stained glass windows. The vibrant blues always made him think of Tony’s arc reactor. Steve took a deep breath and let it out as a sigh of relief—he’d come to the right place. 

God he was a mess sometimes! He’d practically panicked. That was far from the first time a woman had approached him. (“Hit on you!” Tony’d say.) But Steve’d never reacted like that before. Sure, it was always awkward. He couldn’t understand how someone, _anyone_ , could just ask a stranger out like that. At least Agent James sort of knew him and hadn’t just asked him straight to _bed_. Hell, she hadn’t necessarily been asking him on a date! (Yeah, she had.) Steve frowned. (Okay, yeah, pretty sure she had. But whatever.) 

Plenty of girls had tried to give him their numbers before—sometimes _while he was still fighting!_ —but he’d just stammered something he hoped was polite, then fled. Or kept fighting. He’d never reacted like that. It was weird. 

(No it isn’t. You know perfectly well why.) He’d overreacted. (Not really.) His stomach twisted and he felt bile in his throat. (Oh, shit. _Tony_.) 

Steve dropped his head in his hands. 

It had felt like lying, earlier. (It was.) It had felt like shame. Like he was ashamed of Tony, of himself. Of _them_. 

Steve shuddered.

What was he supposed to say? What did he want to say?

(“I’m sorry. I’m sure you’re lovely, ma’am, but I’m gay and I have a boyfriend. I’m desperately, hopelessly in love with him, so even if I weren’t totally gay, gay, _gay_ , I’d only have eyes for him. Sorry! Have a fantastic day!”) 

Steve gave a little snort. (Okay, not the best way to say it, but kinda funny…) Steve shook his head. (Not that you’ll be saying anything soon. You can’t even _hold his hand_. Not in public.) He took a deep breath and tried to clear his head.

What might things be like if he weren’t queer? It was easy to picture how it was supposed to go, at least according to the patterns he used to know. He’d have gone for drinks with Agent James and her friends. Then, after a few times out in a group, he’d have asked her on a proper date. They’d get to know each other slowly, little by little. After a few dates, they’d kiss. Then they’d be going steady. He’d remember to call her his ‘girlfriend’ instead of his ‘girl.’ Things were different now, so he’d probably have seemed a little too slow, a little too traditional, but eventually, they’d— (Huh.) Steve blinked. _Would_ they have waited until they got married? The strange mirror world he’d been imagining dissolved into gray impossibility. The early parts were easy to imagine: in a lot of ways dating was like making a new friend, but he’d never wanted sex with a woman and he never would. 

(Just Tony. Only Tony.)

Steve shivered. He wanted Tony. All of him, everything, and he definitely wanted sex with Tony. Wanted it fiercely, desperately, urgently. Steve wondered distantly if he was guilty of the sin of lust, but the idea couldn’t hold his attention. (Love—it’s _love_.) Even more distantly he tried to picture suggesting to Tony that they postpone sex until marriage. Steve had to smother a laugh. 

As if Steve could bear to wait!

As if Tony were the marrying type! 

Steve’s chest ached at the thought.

(Though if he were, we could get married right here in St. Michael’s! _Amazing_. _Unbelievable_.) 

Steve felt a surge of grateful affection for the little church.

It had been one of the first things Meredith ever told him back when he’d started dropping by St. Michael’s. Steve had nearly panicked, thinking she could sense something about him, could tell he was queer, but then he realized that she told _everybody_ about her son’s wedding and his lovely husband. Because she wasn’t ashamed of them. She was _proud_ of them. 

(Tony’s not ashamed. Tony wanted to kiss you, right there in the restaurant. You’re the one who pulled away, acting like he was doing something _wrong_.) Steve swallowed. (I’m not ashamed. I’m just _private_. If we weren’t famous, I wouldn’t-- ) Steve couldn’t even finish the thought, couldn’t lie to himself, especially not _here_. Fame made it worse, but it wasn’t just about privacy. (I want to! I do. I just freeze…) Deep breath. (Breathing techniques—best thing the SHIELD therapist ever taught me…)

Deep breath. In. Out.

(I held his hand in Piacci.)

In.

(Yeah, _under the table_.)

Out. 

(It’s okay. Tony loves me. We’re working on it. _I’m_ working on it.)

Steve knelt and clasped his hands, looking up at the stained glass. 

(Dear Lord, please help me be good to Tony. Help me deal with . . . _this_ \--) 

And, yeah, that was kind of vague, but it was hard to put into words and God was _God_ , so He’d know what Steve meant…

Steve bit his lip and focused on his prayer. 

(Please give me the courage I need to face what lies ahead, whatever it may be. Thank you, Lord, for bringing Tony into my life, for this miracle. Thank you for giving me back a sense of home, a sense of purpose. Thank you for my friends, for their patience and generosity. For letting me serve my country.)

Steve’s chest and throat felt tight, his skin hot; he was awash with a nearly overwhelming mix of guilt and gratitude, longing and joy. He was at a loss for words, so instead he just _felt_ , taking deep breaths in and out until he was steadier, calmer. After a few more minutes, he crossed himself and sat back on the bench. He paused to savor the beauty of the old church, letting his eyes linger on the geometry of the windows, the elegant proportions of the exposed rafters, the sturdy rows of heavy wooden pews. (Maybe I should draw the interior sometime…) He’d adjusted to lots of modern architecture, but this was so lovely and familiar. He took long deep breaths, as if he could breathe the lovelieness in, hold it tight in his lungs until it spread to his bloodstream and coursed, warm and lingering, through his veins. 

(Fanciful metaphors, Rogers? You’re a soldier, not a poet for sure. Better stick to sketching.)

With a last deep breath, Steve headed to the vestry. He’d never miss honey gingerbread. 

***

Tony was just stepping out of the shower when JARVIS announced: “Sir, Colonel Rhodes has arrived.”

“Send him up, J.” 

“He’s in the elevator approaching the penthouse now, sir.” 

Tony tossed on a pair of black jeans and a tanktop, then grabbed the hoodie he’d been wearing earlier. He gave it a sniff as he walked down the hallway. (Meh. Good enough.) He shrugged it on, preparing to launch himself at Rhodey as soon as the elevator doors opened—he stopped short. 

Rhodey had a crutch wedged under his left armpit; his right knee was wrapped in a brace, his right ankle in a cast, while his right arm hung heavily in a sling.

(Fuck, fuck, fuck.) Tony faltered. (It’s fine, he’s fine, everything’s cool.) Tony swallowed heavily and cleared his throat.

“What’s with all this, gimpy?” Tony asked, aiming for casual.

“What, this?” Rhodey asked, with a nod at the crutch. He made his way slowly into the living room. His voice sounded tight. “Didn’t you hear? I’m changing careers. Gonna be an actor. If I wanna snag an academy award, I’d better be handy with crutches. I’m working on my stutter too.” 

“Yeah, that’s--” 

And, oh man, there was so much there-- Rhodey’d just handed him a heaping pile of material to work with, but Tony couldn’t focus on a witty reply. 

Rhodey had seven neat little stitches—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—at his right temple and he had a black eye. Some of the blood vessels in his eye must have burst on impact; it make it look like his eye was bleeding, even though it wasn’t. His bottom lip was split, swollen and puffy. 

“—that’s . . .”

Tony wanted to poke and jab and jostle, but he didn’t know where it would hurt so none of his usual covers would work; he felt exposed and awkward as he took a step to lay his hand lightly on Rhodey’s shoulder. (Not enough.) Tony eased a little closer, arm going around Rhodey’s good side, crutch and all, for a gentle half-hug. Rhodey smelled like that cheap aftershave Tony always complained about but Rhodey refused to give up. Tony tipped his forehead against Rhodey’s shoulder and took a deep breath.

“Shit, man,” Rhodey said, shifting awkwardly. 

“Yeah,” Tony answered roughly into Rhodey’s sweatshirt, then said more forcefully as he pulled away, “Yeah, what the fuck? What the hell happened?” 

“Good to see you too,” Rhodey grunted. “And you know I can’t tell you.” 

“Bullshit. Total bullshit.” Tony shook his head. “All right, enough stalling. What have you done to it? Where’s the suit?”

Rhodey trailed after Tony, slow and awkward with the crutch. “The Air Force has it.”

“They’d better not be messing with it!”

“Nah, they fear your wrath. They said they’d deliver it here tonight.”

Tony grunted and walked over to the bar.

“What have they got you on for that?” Tony asked, waving at Rhodey’s injuries.

Rhodey gave a half-grin, half-grimace. “The good stuff.”

“You drink on it?”

“Not supposed to.”

“That gonna stop you?”

“Well,” Rhodey said, smile widening, “I won’t tell mom if you don’t.” 

Tony grinned. “And by mom, you mean Pepper?”

“Obviously.”

“Scotch?”

Rhodey shook his head. “Nah, just a beer for me. Better take it easy.”

“Where do you want it?”

“Sunroom?” 

“Sure.” Tony didn’t bother frosting a glass, but took a moment to fix himself a scotch with a few drops of water, just a small one. (See? I can totally do moderation! War Machine needs repairs. And upgrades. Safety upgrades. And failsafes. And--)

“I’ll just carry these, shall I, buttercup?” Tony asked, holding up their drinks with a little smirk.

Rhodey just rolled his eyes and answered with a dry, “Yeah, you do that, Tony.” 

Tony forced a smile and made his way down the hall towards the sunroom. He almost slowed his usual pace, but knew that would just annoy Rhodey, so instead he called, “Come on, honeybadger. Keep up!” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Tony could practically hear Rhodey rolling his eyes again. (Over the heavy ‘thud’ of his crutch and the lurch of his steps…) “That’s right. Mock the cripple wounded in action, protecting his country and your sorry ass.” 

“Mmm-hmm. Irreverent wit—it’s part of my charm. So, move it!”

Rhodey grunted. “That’s your wit and charm? Seriously? How the hell do you ever get laid?” 

“Uh, billionaire, genius, playboy, philanthropist? How do _you_ ever get laid?” 

Rhodey grinned. “Chicks dig the uniform.” 

“Nah, chicks dig the _armor_.” Rhodey didn’t rise to the bait. 

Tony held the door open for Rhodey silently, then they made their way over to the couch. Rhodey laid his crutch aside and lowed himself down very carefully onto the cushions, then eased his right leg up onto the coffee table. The late afternoon light flooded the glass-paneled section of the terrace. (Not a traditional sunroom, but whatever—it has a great view of Iron Man’s landing strip.)

They were quiet a moment before Rhodey opened awkwardly, “So, uh, Pepper says you’re seeing someone new.”

“Won’t work Rhodey! Tell me what the fuck happened out there.” 

Rhodey sighed. “Can’t do it, Tony.”

“Sure you can! Only JARVIS is listening and he works for me!”

“Ha ha.”

“Seriously, Rhodey, I can’t upgrade the armor if I don’t know what went wrong.”

“Nothing went wrong, Tony,” Rhodey said solemnly. 

Tony gave a little snort. “No, obviously that’s not true because _you’re hurt_.” 

“Sometimes this shit happens, man.”

“Unacceptable. So, what happened?” 

Rhodey sighed again and took a sip of his beer, straight from the bottle. “I was on a mission—and, no, I won’t tell you about it—and they had rocket launchers. A lot of them.” Rhodey’s face went tight. “They managed to take out my ground support. At least temporarily, so I didn’t have anyone to cover me. There were too many missiles all at once and I got hit. Put half the repulsors out of commission and then, well—” Rhodey gave a grim smile. “--I fell.”

Tony sucked in a sharp breath. (Shit. Rhodey really could have-- ) Tony scowled and bit his lip in concentration. (So, improved evasive maneuvers and dummy targets to throw off their locking systems. And maybe an emergency reverse EMP to take them out on the ground?) Tony tapped thoughtfully at the arc reactor. (Or maybe--)

“Hey.”

(-- something like an airbag system? Nothing so crude, of course, but a way to let the suit absorb the impact better, divert the damage away from--) Tony chewed at his lip. (No, that would require a wider gap between the pilot and the suit; that would open up larger operational problems, but if--)

“Hey!” Rhodey hollered. “Stop with the mental engineering and talk to me, man. You can do that once the suit gets here.” Rhodey snapped his fingers in front of Tony’s face.

Tony gave a little jolt and looked back at him. 

“Huh? Oh.” Tony took another sip of scotch. “Yeah. Fine.” 

“So, like I said,” Rhodey opened, “Pepper mentioned that you’re dating someone new.”

(Fuck! How do I ease into this? Shit. Evasive maneuvers!)

“What?” Tony cried. “So now you talk about me with Pepper?”

Rhodey rolled his eyes. “Tony, I’ve always talked about you with Pepper. You know that. It’s part of our sacred pact.” 

“What? What is this? What pact?” 

“Our ‘why the fuck do we love this asshole so much and why is it so hard to take care of him?’ pact. Our joint mission to keep you sane, nourished, and in one piece. It was too big a job for one person.” 

“Lies, hideous lies!” Tony gave him a performative glare. “There’s no actual pact, is there?”

“We’ve even got a secret handshake.” Rhodey reached out to give him a little shove. “So spill, man.”

“Hey! Secret handshake? There’s no--”

“Can’t distract me, so cough it up. Who is she? Why aren’t you telling me? And, seriously, what the fuck—” Rhodey scowled at him. “Why’d Pepper hear it first?!”

Tony fidgeted. “So, uh, Pepper didn’t tell you who it is?” 

“Duh. That’s why I’m asking! If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking, would I?”

“Right.” Tony stalled by taking another sip of scotch. “So, what did Pep tell you?” 

“Not much.” Rhodey gave an awkward, one-shouldered shrug, then grimaced. “First, she asked if you’d already told me about your new ‘lover,’ which of course you hadn’t so, thanks for that. Seriously, Pepper keeps score in her head, I just know it, and she’s _winning_.”

“Rhodey,” Tony scolded. 

“Right. Uh, well, she asked if you’d told me and then vowed she wouldn’t say anything more. She wanted to know what I thought once I’d heard from you. And, yeah, shit--” Rhodey frowned, then gave Tony a rueful smile. “--I really shouldn’t have repeated any of that to you, should I?”

“Nah,” Tony said with a dismissive wave. “I already knew Pepper wasn’t thrilled.” 

(Yeah, Tony, you don’t sound bitter _at all_.)

“You know how Pepper worries, Tony,” Rhodey said, tone conciliatory. “Nobody will ever be good enough for you in her eyes.” Tony let out an incredulous little snort. “No, dude, don’t do that. It’s true.” Tony gave him a pointed look and Rhodey made a placating little hand gesture, adding, “Just because you two didn’t work out, doesn’t mean . . .” Rhodey trailed off. “Look, she’s probably just—I dunno—afraid this girl’s a gold digger or something.” 

Tony laughed. “Oh, right. ‘Cause I haven’t been dodging that type _my entire life_.” (Whoa, let’s not sound bitter _and_ whiney.) Tony gave Rhodey an exaggerated leer then added, “And by ‘dodging’ I mean--” He waggled his eyebrows and Rhodey chuckled. 

“Yeah, yeah. I know what you mean. So, what’s the deal?” Tony was silent. Rhodey frowned. “Well, now _I’m_ starting to worry,” Rhodey said. 

“No, don’t,” Tony said, swirling his drink around in the tumbler, watching it leave elegant legs on the edge of the glass. 

(Shit.)

“It’s good. Honest,” Tony fumbled, not looking at Rhodey. “We’re good together. Just, we’re keeping things quiet for now. We’ve only told the team. And Pepper, and, now you, ‘cause, well—”

Tony’s stomach twisted. He took a deep breath: “It’s Steve.”

“Steve?” Rhodey repeated. (And, yep, same blank tone as Pepper. Awesome.)

Tony chuckled nervously and rubbed the back of his neck. He glanced up. “Uh, yeah. Steve Rogers, ya know—First Avenger? Big, blond, blue-eyed?” 

Rhodey’s mouth dropped a little and his eyebrows flew up. “You’re shitting me.”

Tony held in a sigh and said, toneless: “Nope.” 

“Well damn, Tony.” Rhodey stared for a moment then broke out in a bright, wide, shit-eating grin. “You lucky son of a bitch!” He reached out to give Tony’s shoulder a rough slap. 

The knot in Tony’s stomach eased a little and Tony returned Rhodey’s smile. “I know, right?”

“That’s really great, Tony,” Rhodey said. “He seems like a good guy. I’m happy for you.” 

Tony just nodded—his throat felt tight. They sat quietly and sipped their drinks, enjoying the sunshine and the magnificent view. 

After a few minutes Rhodey broke in, “I almost can’t believe it.” He was shaking his head, still grinning. “Captain America’s _gay_.”

Tony hesitated a moment, then shrugged and said, tone subdued: “I really doubt it since, ‘Captain America’ was invented as 1940’s propaganda. Doubt they’d have liked this one bit.” Tony shook his head. “But, yeah, Steve Rogers is gay.” 

Rhodey nodded and said, “I get what you mean, but still. He _is_ Captain America.” Rhodey took another sip of his beer. Tony nodded, conceding the point. They fell into a lingering silence. 

Tony threw back his scotch. And this, _this_ was why Tony should be in his workshop. There was nothing to do with his hands here, nowhere to divert his attention, just quiet and-- 

“Tony?” Rhodey’s face was creased, his brows knit, mouth frowning just slightly. It could have looked pensive, but Tony knew it was worry. Rhodey hesitated a second then asked, “He’s good to you?” 

“Yeah.” Tony swallowed thickly and nodded. “He is. And he’s . . . He’s so fucking brave, Rhodey.” Tony spoke softly, almost surprised to hear the words coming out, but needing Rhodey to understand why he didn’t need to worry, not about Tony. “Steve came to me. I’d sort of wondered for a while, with the way he looked at me and sought me out, but I thought I was probably reading it wrong or he didn’t realize—wasn’t aware of the _thing_ between us, I mean, if I wasn’t imagining things. I would never have asked him. It took some fucking guts to--”

(Say he loves me.)

“—tell me how he feels. I mean, he’s from the forties. They thought he was sick or he’d go to hell or both, but those people, they weren’t some nasty subculture—it was everybody, or as good as. He never even told his best friend, and the guy was like a brother to him.”

Tony gave Rhodey this helpless look, struggling for words. Rhodey nodded, expression solemn, and said quietly, “I can’t imagine what that’d be like.” 

“Yeah.” Tony’s voice was a little rough. He toyed with his empty glass and he should probably stop talking, but the words were spilling out anyway. “I mean, it’s still hard on him, you know? He’s okay in the Tower—it feels safe, I guess. But in public it’s still . . . tough. And he hates that, I can tell—he beats himself up for it every time he’s shy, but he’s trying and he’s so good to me. And just—” Tony waved his hand for emphasis. “-- _good_. Sometimes I can’t believe he grew up back then and is still real, you know?”

“You mean, that he isn’t--” Rhodey waved a hand, unwilling to finish the sentence. Tony gave a wry smirk.

“A racist, misogynist, homophobic dick-bag?” Tony supplied with a little laugh. “Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Rhodey nodded. He finished off his beer. “So,” he hesitated a second, then asked, “do you think he’ll come out? Eventually?”

“Eventually? Yeah.” Tony smiled at the thought. “Steve’d never back down from a challenge, but it’s only been a couple of weeks. For now, we’re keeping it quiet—only telling our friends. I don’t want him to face the media circus before he’s ready.” 

“Sure,” Rhodey said, “but that’s good. That he’s not going to keep you in the closet forever. ‘Cause that’d suck.” Rhodey toyed with his beer bottle for a moment, then added, “And, well, it would do a lot of people good to have him as a role model, you know?” 

“Yeah.” Tony nodded earnestly, then grimaced. He let out a bitter little laugh. “Won’t be glad to see _me_ with him, but whatever.” 

“Tony, don’t.” Rhodey’s voice was stern and Tony frowned. “Don’t.”

(And fuck, oh fuck, why the fuck don’t I shut up?) It was like he was puking up words, couldn’t hold them in, and next thing he knew he’d blurted: “Even _Pepper_ doesn’t think I’m good enough for him.”

“What the fuck?” Rhodey sounded almost angry. “Get your head out of your ass, man. That is the last thing she’s thinking. We haven’t talked about it, but I can guarantee it’s the other way around. Like I said, _nobody_ is good enough for you in Pepper’s eyes. Not even Captain-fuckin’-America.” 

“Yeah right! She practically—”

“Sir,” JARVIS interrupted. “Captain Rogers has just returned to the Tower and is asking after you. Shall I direct him to the sunroom?” 

Tony sighed before answering, “Yeah, sure, J. Send him up.”

(Here goes nothing.)

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! You're the best!
> 
> This was kinda hard to write because, I discovered, I feel oddly intrusive when I depict Steve's religious life. I imagine he'd be very private about that sort of thing. Strangely enough, though, I *don't* feel intrusive when I depict his deepest sexual desires. Uh. That probably says something about me...
> 
> Also, if you would like to commission art from LP, there's still time! Her commissions post is here: http://leperu.livejournal.com/3038.html and a glorious sample of her art, here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/711867. :-)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter dedicated to thatwhichyields and ds862 who gave me beautiful, hot, amazing gift art! 
> 
> If you haven't seen the comic LePeru made from chapters 8-12 of "Surrender" check it out here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/888631. It is phenomenal. *fans self* Enjoy!

Steve felt lighter as he stood in the little churchyard, enjoying the neat little rows of herbs and bushes, the labyrinth laid out in white and grey stones. He smiled and, after a few more minutes, crossed the street where his bike was waiting. 

St. Michael’s was good for him—quiet time to himself, a short chat with Meredith, and two (yeah, okay, _three_ ) pieces of Welsh honey gingerbread. (What? She cuts them really small.) She’d given him a little update on her family. Apparently, her daughter was struggling with her dissertation. At least PhD students in English literature were pretty harmless-- any mistakes she made were unlikely to run wild and do millions of dollars in property damage. (Now, now. Don’t stereotype grad students, Rogers. Not _all_ of them unleash mutant animals and destructive robots on the metropolis.) Meanwhile Meredith’s son and his husband were planning to buy a condo, but were having trouble finding one with near a space for gardening. 

It was nice to have these little connections to everyday people, people who weren’t agents or superspies or super-geniuses. Sometimes, it still made Steve feel a little melancholy—all these people and their families—but on days like today it reminded him that people in the twenty-first century weren’t so different and he was honored to serve them.

Steve revved the engine and headed back to the Tower, bike purring under him. He wanted to see Tony, to be with him in their home, to greet him with a kiss and tell him that he loves him. He wanted to kneel at Tony’s feet and tell him about Agent James, about the shame and fear and confusion, wanted to bow his head and tell Tony he was so sorry, beg for his forgiveness, and swear to Tony that he is trying, that he’ll do better, he’s working on it. 

Steve parked the bike in the garage and quickly shed his gear. The need to see Tony, to feel Tony, was an ache beneath his skin. Steve strode to the elevator. 

“Excuse me, JARVIS? Where’s Tony?” Steve asked, looking up. (Yeah, yeah—not in the ceilings, whatever.) 

There was a short delay before JARVIS answered. 

“Sir is currently in the sunroom. He is expecting you.”

“Thanks, JARVIS.” 

The elevator seemed slow (it isn’t) and Steve took long steps down the hall (not _actually_ running). He was half way there when he heard Tony’s voice. He slowed a little, sorry to find that Tony wasn’t alone, then sped up again when he recognized the deep timber of the answering voice. Rhodey! (Shit.) Steve paused again. (Maybe I should leave them to catch up? (No, JARVIS said Tony was ‘expecting me.’) Steve bit his lip and continued. Had Tony told Rhodey they were together? (It’s fine. He knows about Tony and doesn’t care. It’ll be fine. Good, even.) Better hurry up and get it over with. As he got closer, Steve could tell Rhodey sounded . . . angry. A little knot formed, tight and heavy, in Steve’s stomach. 

“—hate that you expect the worst,” Rhodey was saying. Steve couldn’t hear Tony’s mumbled reply before Rhodey continued, “that’s such bullshit, man!” 

Steve came into sight; Tony got to his feet with a nervous look and Rhodey turned a little on the couch. His face was a mess. Steve yanked the glass door open and rushed into the sunroom, his earlier train of thought entirely derailed. 

“My God!” Steve exclaimed, taking in Rhodey’s crutch and sling and stitches and-- “Oh my God, Rhodey, what happened? Are you all right?” 

Rhodey grinned up at him. “Relax, man. Just a little banged up. War Machine had a rough week.” Rhodey grimaced. “You know how it is.” 

Steve took a sharp little breath, then said fervently, “Thank God you’re all right. _Thank God._ ” (Did Tony’s eye twitch?) 

“I, uh—” Steve fidgeted a little. “Sorry about bursting in like that. I didn’t know you were planning a visit. Or had been injured.” Steve shot Tony a reproachful look. 

“Hey, I only just found out myself!” Tony said, holding up his hands in surrender. “Though, uh, maybe I should have texted you?” Tony was hovering awkwardly.

Rhodey let out a little chuckle. “This wasn’t exactly planned. I never seem to manage that.” Rhodey shrugged. “Anyway, it’s good to see you again, Steve, and, hey-- I heard the big news.” He held out his hand with a grin. (Do you mean--?) “Tony’s a lucky man.” (Yes!)

Steve shook Rhodey’s hand, heart feeling full again. (Thank you, thank you so much. I love him, I love him, I love him. . . )

“I’m lucky too,” Steve said, trying to put everything he felt for Tony into his voice and his expression, to give Rhodey a wordless promise he’d take care of Tony, love him, and never hurt him. “I’m so incredibly lucky.” 

“Damn straight,” Rhodey agreed seriously, looking over at Tony with a challenging expression Steve couldn't quite grasp. Then Rhodey gestured to the second couch and added, “Go grab a beer, Steve. Join us for a drink.” 

“Okay,” Steve said with a smile. “I’ll be right back.”

“And, hey grab me one too, would ya, Steve?” Rhodey asked. “I’m feeling too lazy for the hike to the kitchen.” 

“Sure,” Steve agreed, then paused. “Er, it won’t interfere with your medication?”

Tony chortled. 

“Mom!” Tony cried, delighted. “ _Steve’s_ mom! Busted, man. So busted.” (Huh?) Steve shot Tony a baffled look.

Rhodey laughed and shook his head. “Nah, Steve. It’s cool. A beer or two won’t do any harm. Just no benders for a while.” 

“Sorry,” Steve said, “I shouldn’t have—I mean--”

Rhodey waved the apology away. “Hey, you’re probably used to trying to keep Tony in line, right?” 

“Well, uh--” Steve’s eyes skittered nervously to Tony.

“Yeah,” Rhodey agreed with a snort. “He’s a _terror_ when he’s laid up.” 

“Hey!” Tony squawked. 

Steve smiled. “Yeah, he is, isn’t he?” 

Tony gave a theatrical sigh. “Geeze. I didn’t introduce you two so you could gang up on me.” 

“Shut up, Tones.”

“Yes, sir, Colonel, sir!” Tony mocked. 

Steve fetched two beers from the kitchen and hurried back to the sunroom. Tony had moved from the armchair to the couch when he got back. Steve delivered Rhodey’s beer, then took a seat close to Tony. (Not _too_ close, but not far away either.) He left his hand loose, palm up on the couch between their thighs.

“So, how've you been, Steve?” Rhodey asked. “What's new?” 

Steve glanced over to Tony with a soft smile. (Has his hand inched a little closer?)

“Other than finally asking Tony out on a proper date?” Steve shrugged. “Pretty much the same as usual. Working at SHIELD off and on. Minor call outs for the Avengers.” 

“Minor!” Tony squawked in mock indignation. “Don't listen to him, Rhodey! Our battle with Doom-and-Gloom Bots was _legendary_. No, truly epic. Move over Chitauri. You see . . .”

Rhodey smiled and chucked as Tony gave a humorously overblown account of their battle worthy of Thor at his most rhapsodic. And as Tony spoke, Steve let his hand creep across the couch cushion, millimeter by millimeter. He caressed Tony's hand tentatively with his fingers, unsure. Tony slid his hand over Steve's and laced their fingers together. Steve's heart pounded, but giddy not distressed. 

(It's okay. Rhodey's happy for us.) In fact, Steve was pretty sure Rhodey glanced down at their hands and smiled a little brighter, looking away from Tony's oration to catch Steve's eye with his grin. 

“-- so you see,” Tony concluded, “you'd better tell the tale of War Machine's latest daring-do if you want to compete for the crown of glory.”

Steve blinked. “What crown?”

Rhodey rolled his eyes. “There is no crown. Tony's just being a dick. Wants to know information he's not cleared for.” 

“Just a _hint,_ Rhodey. It--”

“Tony, he's not going to break security protocols,” Steve chastised. 

Tony rolled his eyes and made a dramatic “humph.” Rhodey just shook his head.

“So, how long are you in town?” Steve asked. “You staying here with us?

Rhodey nodded. “Just for tonight. Then I head down to Boston for a little while.” 

“Say hello to Mrs. Rhodes for me,” Tony demanded.

“Your mom?” Steve asked, surprised. (And okay perhaps a little jealous. Know enough orphans and you start to assume _nobody_ still has their parents. . . ) Rhodey nodded. 

“She’s amazing.” Tony gave a theatrical shudder. “And _terrifying_. If she’d joined the service, she’d outrank Rhodey for sure. Only question is if she’d be a four or a five star general.” 

“Damn straight,” Rhodey laughed and nodded. He turned to Steve. “It’s true. She’s braver than I am. She taught biology to hordes of teenagers and kept the little monsters in line.”

“She sounds amazing,” Steve said, trying to picture Rhodey at MIT, dragging Tony off to meet his mom. Maybe she'd tried to talk sense into wild child Tony? Steve smiled. He liked the idea that maybe she'd been there for Tony when his parents died.

“Do you think she’s forgiven me for--” Tony waved his hands, “—that thing?”

Rhodey raised an eyebrow. “She’s got a list of 'things'.” Rhodey paused. “The list starts in the eighties. So, care to be more specific?” 

“Uh. Any of them?”

Rhodey just rolled his eyes. 

“I’m guessing that’s a no.” Tony brightened. “Maybe I should send her a--”

“Oh, man, don’t try it. She's still pissed about the last grand gesture. Seriously, Tony, a convertible? For _my_ mom?”

Tony just shrugged.

“Sir, a Lieutenant Johnson is here,” JARVIS announced from the ceiling. “She is requesting access to deliver the War Machine armor.” 

“Tell her I’m coming down to meet her,” Tony called, leaping off the couch and dropping Steve's hand. 

“See you next week!” Rhodey called out as Tony started to walk away. Tony just gave a distracted little wave and Rhodey chuckled. “Well, that's it. He’s going down the rabbit hole,” Rhodey added to Steve. “No prying him out once he's got War Machine to play with.”

(Shit.)

Steve leapt up. “Would you excuse me for a minute?” he said to Rhodey, then called out after his fella, “Tony!” 

Tony jerked to a stop, looking startled. 

“Uh,” Steve said, less urgently, “Just, I’ll walk you to the elevator.” 

“Awww, babe, are you gonna carry my books to class for me too?” 

Steve just smiled and reached for Tony’s hand. (Not what I’d been hoping for, but I’ll take it.) Waiting for the elevator, he pressed a gentle kiss to Tony’s forehead. 

“I love you,” Steve said seriously. Now wasn’t the time to tell Tony about earlier, to confess, beg, and repent, but he couldn’t just let Tony walk away and disappear for who knows how long. Steve reached out to touch Tony’s cheek. “I just wanted to tell you that before you go down to the workshop.” 

Tony’s brow furrowed and he looked up at Steve with a slight frown. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine, Tony,” Steve said, with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “I just love you so much.” 

“I love you too, babe,” Tony said, not looking reassured. “I—” Tony hesitated, “Do you need anything? I could—” 

Steve shook his head. “No. You go down to the workshop. Fix War Machine. Help keep Rhodey safe. I’ll be waiting when you get done.” 

Tony was still frowning. “Might take a while.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” Steve reassured, pressing a kiss to Tony’s knuckles, then pulled him close for a proper kiss. He wanted to crush Tony against him and tease him with tongue and teeth and wet heat, but he could be good. Tony had important work to do. 

Steve stepped back and gave Tony a little push towards the now-waiting elevator. “Now go on. Good luck.” 

“Yeah,” Tony said. “I’ll see you later.” The doors started to close, but Tony reached out suddenly to stop them. “Oh! And there’s a present for you in your bedroom.” Tony gave Steve a little wink and let the doors shut on his smirk. 

(Oh my God. Does me mean? Is it maybe--) Steve took a deep breath. It would be rude to leave their guest alone. (And I'd rather Rhodey didn't see me blushing. . .) Steve shook his head. The mysterious present wasn't going anywhere. With a little smile, he returned to the sunroom and took his seat. 

“Sorry about running off,” Steve said, picking up his beer. 

Rhodey shrugged it off. “Nah, no worries.” 

Steve smiled at him, suddenly at a loss for words. He wanted to ask Rhodey _everything_ about Tony-- wanted to hear stories about them at MIT, not the ones Tony always told with a wide grin, looking ahead to the punchline. He wanted to ask about Tony and Mrs. Rhodes, wanted to add one more to the list of people who knew the real Tony, at least a bit. He wanted to ask what Tony had told Rhodey about Howard when he was a teenager, so he could to map out more of that minefield. 

And he wanted to tell Rhodey how much Tony meant to him. That Tony was the first person to make the twenty-first century seem bearable. That he wouldn't let Tony's bad spells drive him away, that he'd never abandon Tony, that this was it. And he wanted to thank Rhodey for never giving up on his friend, for bringing him home from Afghanistan. 

They both took a sip of beer.

“So,” Rhodey said. “Pretty sure there's a game on. Wanna--?”

“Yeah.” Steve smiled. “Sounds great.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long hiatus! Between setbacks at work and two rounds of health problems, I haven't had much time to write. Thank you so much to everyone who has left me comments and encouragement. You are wonderful. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the (long delayed) update. I hope to have the next chapter up in not too long and I promise you some sexy time in chapter 16. (Sort of.)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading this story! (hugs)


	16. Chapter 16

“Mr. Stark, it's an honor to meet you,” Lieutenant Johnson said briskly. She looked a bit like Pepper, only blonde and in a crisp navy uniform instead of a crisp navy suit.

“War Machine in there?” Tony asked, gesturing to the huge crate she had maneuvered into the freight elevator with a sizable handcart. 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Great. I've got it from here.” He reached out to take the cart from her, but she blocked him. 

“Sir, I'll need you to fill these out--” she waved a folder at him, “and enter your biometrics on the pad.” 

Tony rolled his eyes. He pressed his palm to the crate's pad (at least it's StarkTech) and then waited for the green light from the retinal scan. She held out the folder.

“Yeah, no. Just drop it on the floor.” 

“Sir?”

“Look, I'm in a hurry. Just set that down would ya?”

Visibly confused, she bent and placed the folder on the floor. Tony scooped it up, and scanned over the familiar “we will destroy you if anything happens to War Machine while its in your care even though it was your suit to begin with and really we have no right to ask you for anything” form. (Can't sign _anything_ for the military without looking at it carefully.) He was vaguely aware of Lieutenant Johnson talking in the background: something something really honored something something workshop something Avengers something. Tony signed with a flourish and handed the paperwork back. He was eager to get War Machine into the workshop, though oddly reluctant to see the damage up close. (Rhodey's fine. You saw him. Really, he's just fine.) Tony brushed the Lieutenant aside and took over the handcart. 

“Sir?”

(Here we go.)

“Sir!” 

“Huh?” Tony looked over. (Oh yeah. Lieutenant Whatsit is still here.) “Oh. Right. Thanks. JARVIS'll show you out. Freight elevator to one, J. Dismissed!”

“Thank you, sir. And if I may, sir? Good luck!”

Tony nodded and maneuvered the handcart to the workshop. 

“Dummy, You-- get that crate open. JARVIS, start up Diagnostic 291-299. I want War Machine's latest specs and diagrams on screens one through three, and I want the Mark XI's on screens four to six. And, JARVIS? Gimmie the Stones. Loud.”

(Let's get this show on the road.)

***

Steve enjoyed spending time with Rhodey. They'd watched the game on Tony's massive television, chatting amicably about nothing of consequence while the commercials flickered past on mute. Clint joined them half-way through and they'd ordered pizza, real New York pizza Rhodey'd been craving while stationed abroad. Tony didn't come up-- not that anyone was surprised-- and Rhodey insisted on being the one to take pizza down to the workshop, though it was awkward for him with his crutch. 

It had been nice. Really nice. But somewhere in the back of his mind, Steve had kept thinking of Tony's mysterious present and he had to fight off a blush, a semi, and the urge to run off and satisfy his curiosity. 

And now, at last, the time had come. 

Sitting on his neatly-made bed was a plain paper bag and an index card which said “a little more, as promised. . .” in Tony’s messy hand. Steve held his breath, heart speeding—he had a pretty good idea what it might be. 

Still, Steve got a jolt when he stripped off the plain brown paper to find the picture of a penis on the box. ( _Dildo_.) He opened it with a certain embarrassed excitement, then hurried to shut his bedroom door. (Not that anyone would come on my floor unannounced, but still . . .) 

The dildo curved a bit at an angle and was on the small side. It was quite a bit smaller than Tony, which was probably to ease him into things, but also seemed like it would make it less useful for a proper . . . education. Steve gave it a gentle squeeze; it felt slightly springy, but not warm and yielding like real flesh. The texture was a little odd. The head was well-shaped and it had ropey veins standing up which made it look like it might have come from a mold of an actual penis. (And, yeah, that’s a weird thought.) It was very realistic in its shape, but it had an oddly uniform pinkish color to it that was nothing like a real cock. 

Steve bit his lip. 

_(“Bet you’ll want to practice all the time, won’t you babe? I’ll have to get you a dildo so you can practice deep throating after I come.”)_

Steve turned the fake cock this way and that in his hands. 

( _You have to relax your throat . . . Work on staying open for me . . . I can’t wait to fuck your throat, baby. . . make you take it. . ._ )

Steve gave a little shiver and set the dildo on the bed. He fetched a glass of water and hovered awkwardly for a moment, feeling torn. 

(Nobody’s watching, stupid. Go on.) 

Steve took a deep breath and knelt on the floor beside the bed. He did a few breathing exercises to relax and tried to let his throat go loose and open. Then he tipped the cup and tried to let a little bit of water slide down his throat without swallowing. It worked! Encouraged, he tried again, but was overconfident and ended up swallowing to avoid choking. (Don’t get cocky, Rogers.) Steve snorted. ( _Cocky_. Ha.) 

After practicing on the water for a few minutes, Steve took the cock in both hands. And, well, surely this was a good time to practice technique, right? The room felt warm and Steve was starting to get hard. He licked his lips and eased the cock forward. He tongued the head for a moment before sucking it into his mouth. It tasted a little odd—a bit like plastic and nothing like Tony—which was viscerally disappointing in a way he hadn’t expected. 

Steve bobbed his head, up and down, working his lips and tongue, trying to remember the things Tony had done to him, the ones that made his toes curl and his blood sing. It was strange, doing this alone on a _thing_ ,not Tony, weirdly like masturbating but not. It was embarrassing. His cheeks heated, but his cock grew harder. 

The fake cock was wet and heavy in his mouth. Steve focused on relaxing his throat and eased slowly forward, very carefully sliding it towards the back of his throat. 

(“ _Move slowly. Focus on relaxing your throat like you just did. Let my cock touch the back of your throat and try not to gag._ ”)

Steve gagged. He pulled the dildo out of his mouth and took a deep breath. 

(“ _You have to give yourself a moment to recover. It’s a reflex you’re trying to control. Once you set it off, you have to take time to reset._ ”)

“JARVIS?” Steve called out. “Could you please turn the heat up?”

“Certainly, Captain. 78 degrees?”

“Great. Thanks. And, uh, please let me know if anyone takes the elevator to my floor.”

“Of course, Captain.” 

“Thanks, JARVIS.” 

(Might as well do this right . . . ) Steve stripped off his clothes quickly and efficiently and knelt on the floor again. (And I guess I’ve really adjusted to life in the Tower if talking to JARVIS and then doing _this_ doesn’t feel weird…) Steve took another sip of water and brought the dildo back to his mouth, determined. He closed his eyes. 

(Go on. Pretend it’s Tony. It’ll be good. He’d like that.) 

Steve caressed the head, then eased it forward, imagining Tony’s voice rough and heavy in the air.

(“Good boy. Mmmm. . . .That’s it. . .” )

Steve worked the dildo, licking and sucking, then very carefully let it touch the back of his throat and held it there. He didn’t choke. 

(“Oh, fuck! You’re so good, baby.”) 

Steve drew back, focusing on the head once more, then eased forward again to let it touch his throat. He choked. (“Shhhh . . . easy, sweetheart . . . go on, try again, baby . . .”) 

Steve sucked then eased the cock to his throat, over and over. Sometimes he choked, but he seemed to be getting better, and the whole time he imagined Tony’s hand in his hair, his soft filthy praises in his ears.

Steve felt flushed all over and his throbbing cock was leaking a steady stream of pre-cum. 

Steve played with positions, shifting about, trying to find out which angle was easiest for him to take, pushing against his throat just slightly. Choke, wait, repeat. New angle. (“So hard working, baby . . . Good boy.”) Choke, wait, repeat. New angle. There were tears rising in Steve’s eyes. He spread his legs wider, feeling exposed even alone. Exposed and wanting more. His balls were heavy between his legs, his cock an aching pressure. 

Steve concentrated and this time the cockhead slid forward, his gag reflex kept in check. He felt full and dizzy and hot, the weight and pressure of it strange and foreign, but wildly exhilarating even as it cut off his air. (I did it!) His pulse sped and his hips twitched. Very carefully Steve eased it a little farther down his throat, then pulled back a little. He held the dildo there a moment, before pressing it down once more, just a little deeper, and holding it there again. But in a few seconds he could feel himself tensing unpleasantly and had to pull it out all the way. Steve took a deep gulping breath and another. He shivered. Then he tried to push the cock back down his throat. 

He gagged. 

Steve let out a frustrated grunt and drew back to suck the head again, moving it shallowly in and out of his mouth. Sure he was disappointed, but it was still progress. Tony’d approve. _Yeah_. 

And with that, Steve’s resolve caved. He wrapped a hand around his cock and kept sucking the fake dick as he called up memories and fantasies of Tony. 

( _“Yeah, suck my cock, just like that . . . you love this, love having me fuck your face . . . I’m using you the way I want, Steve.”_ ) 

Steve pulled fast and rough on his cock, rocking into it with his whole body. He sucked hard at the dick in his mouth, moaning around it, bobbing his head up and down.

(“ _Yeah, like that! You love being full of cock, don’t you, babe? Can't get enough of my dick inside you. . .”)_

Steve spread his legs even wider and thrust into his hand, jerking his hips forward and back.

 _(You’re mine. Mine and I’m gonna fill you up, come down your throat and make you swallow it all . . . Go on, take it! Now come for me, baby._ ”)

Steve came hard into his hand, shuddering and panting with the force of it. He let the fake cock fall from his mouth and leaned shivering against the bed, still rocking with the aftershocks and panting. 

After a few moments, Steve calmed. He washed his hands and checked the time. 10:47. It wasn't that late, but all he wanted to do was curl up and go to bed. Steve sighed. It wouldn’t be the same without Tony. Steve hated to interrupt, but was tempted to go down and check on him. Steve had almost asked Rhodey if he stayed long enough to make sure Tony actually _ate_ the pizza; he'd had to remind himself that Rhodey'd been taking care of Tony long before Steve arrived on the scene and didn't need instructions. Still . . . maybe he should just drop by to make sure?

(No. Don't interrupt. What he's doing is important. Important and urgent.) 

Steve grabbed his toothbrush and started getting ready for bed. 

(Yeah, don't interrupt. The country needs War Machine and Tony needs to feel like Rhodey will be safe. You can drop by with lunch tomorrow, Rogers.) 

Steve grabbed his sketch book and a box of pencils. He slid under the covers and propped up in bed with a pile of pillows at his back. He'd just do a little detailing before he went to sleep. Tony looked good as an ancient Greek. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for continuing to read this! Hope you liked it. ;-)


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everybody! So sorry for vanishing for so long. RL + writer's block = long absence. You know how it goes. Anyway, I'm hoping to finish this story very, very soon, and then, if there's still interest, I'd like to continue the series in shorter, more manageable stories.
> 
> The rest of this story is dedicated to the kind readers who continued to comment during my long absence and to my anonymous kinkmeme writer. She has given me the MOST BEAUTIFUL fuck-or-die fic (read and praise it here! : http://avengerkink.livejournal.com/17385.html?thread=39139305t39139305) and, when I offered her thank you fic, she asked for more of the Surrender world. So this is for you, dear anon!

Chapter 17

_November 3, 2012_

Tony's eyes were aching, his mind rushing indecisively, lighting on one possibility then discarding it, trying not to look at War Machine, mangled in the corner. The desire to fix it _now_ was like an itch coursing in his veins, but he ignored it; if he was going to install upgrades or redesign it, there was really no sense doing work twice. 

(So, improved evasive maneuvers and dummy targets to throw off their locking systems. And maybe an emergency reverse EMP to take them out on the ground?) Tony tapped thoughtfully at the arc reactor. (Or maybe--)

Tony stood surrounded by dozens of glowing schematics. Usually when he discarded an idea he'd pluck the glowing schematic from the air, ball it up and throw it into the holographic trashcan to keep his visual thought-scape from getting cluttered. (JARVIS backs it all up anyway.) This time, he couldn't seem to make himself throw out a single possibility, even when it looked like they'd fail. 

“Tony?”

His eyes flitted from one glowing screen to the next and back again.

(-- something like an airbag system? Nothing so crude, of course,--)

“Tony, I brought you some lunch.”

(-- but a way to let the suit absorb the impact better, divert the damage away from--) 

“I'm not gonna give you a hard time about staying up all night-- honest!-- but I really think you should eat something. Brains run on fuel too, you know.”

Tony chewed at his lip. (No, that would require a wider gap between Rhodey— no, _the pilot--_ and the suit; that would open up larger operational problems, but if--)

Tony jumped. There was a hand on his shoulder. 

“Steve?”

“Yeah,” Steve said with a soft little smile. “I brought you lunch.”

“Lunch,” Tony repeated dubiously. (What the hell time was it? How could time crawl and fly at the same time? Ugh.)

“I'm making beef stew for dinner, but for now it's just sandwiches, chips, and veggies.”

Tony looked between the plate, piled high with a super soldier serving size, and then to his schematics and back. He blinked. 

“Rhodey head out already?” Tony asked, with a sudden wash of confused guilt. (How long have I been down here?)

Steve nodded. “This morning.” Tony bit his lip. (Shit! Did I tune him out and--) “He asked me to say goodbye; he hated to interrupt you when you were in the zone.” Steve gave him a kind of guilty look and pushed the plate of sandwiches closer. “Anyway, um, why don't you eat a few of these and I'll just, uh, leave you to it?” 

Tony nodded, grabbed a sandwich and took an absent bite, turning back to the schematics. 

(Maybe a parachute? Could such a mundane solution work?)

Tony tossed the sandwich on the table and to write a few calculations, but-- 

(No, that would slow his decent all right, but make him more of a target easier to hit. It-- it. _War Machine_ , not Rhodey. Don't think of it as him.)

Tony took a long deep breath and sip of coffee. (Where did that come from?) Mmm. Hot and bitter the way he liked it when he was vexed. 

(Pull it together, Stark. You can do this.)

&&&&&&

_November 6, 2012_

Steve sighed. Day three of Tony's engineering isolation had dawned bright and beautiful, but Steve had felt a certain uneasy melancholy. When Steve went down to the lab with breakfast, he'd found Tony slumped across his workbench, drooling slightly on his arm as he slept. The dark circles under Tony's eyes looked a sickly blue in the light of his glowing schematics-- dozens upon dozens of them floating all over the shop. Steve had never seen so many at once. He knew better than to wake his lover when he finally nodded off, so he'd just left the sliced apples and buttered toast with a hastily scribbled “Food is fuel! Please eat. Love, Steve.” 

He'd called SHIELD to see if they had any use for him and Hill had replied, a little impatiently, that he could check the roster online to see when he was required and did he need someone to go over the SHEILD website with him _again_? 

So, he'd hopped on his bike and headed to St. Michael's where he found Meredith tending the garden. The parishioners volunteered in turns to keep things in order and Steve was relieved to find something he could help with. He'd dug and planted and weeded with Meredith, did kitchen prep with Tom for dinner at the shelter, and helped Jon unload the latest donations. (And if the eighty-year-old noticed that Steve carried far more at once than even a fit twenty-five year old should be able to, he kindly didn't mention it.) 

Steve pulled his bike into his spot at the tower and took the elevator up to the communal kitchen. 

“JARVIS? Is Tony awake?”

“Sir awoke at 10:37 am and resumed work on his current project.” 

“Did he manage to eat breakfast?”

“Yes, Captain. And some of the lunch that Doctor Banner delivered this afternoon.” 

“Thank you, JARVIS.”

“Of course, Captain.”

Steve sighed and started making a pot of tea. He always worried about Tony a little when he went down his rabbit hole-- too little food, too little sleep, too much coffee-- but he knew that he was mostly just an over-protective mother hen (as Clint put it). This time it felt different somehow; the atmosphere in the workshop was . . . _off_. But he knew better than to interfere. At least, not yet. 

Steve sighed. Of course, with Tony in the clutches of his engineering genius, Steve still hadn't managed to talk to him about Agent James. The guilt was simmering in the back of his mind and, the more he thought about it the more worries bubbled to the surface. 

“All right, Cap?”

Steve jumped. Natasha was the only person who could always sneak up on him. He smiled. 

“Just . . . thinking.”

Natasha nodded, got out another mug, and sat near him at the counter in silence. Clint and Thor would ask him directly what was wrong; Bruce would offer to listen if he wanted to talk; Tony would crack a joke about being terrible with feelings. Natasha's patient silence was all the invitation she'd give, but somehow it was always enough. Steve poured boiling water into the teapot and took a seat next to her. 

“Natasha?” Steve swallowed. “Is SHEILD part of the Armed Forces?” 

“No. We're not.” She said it in that firm, matter-of-fact tone she used for important information in briefings. 

“So, when 'Don't Ask, Don't Tell' was repealed--?”

“It freed gay military personnel to serve openly, but,” she continued, in the gentle tone Steve thought of as her 'Tony voice,' “SHIELD has had a non-discrimination policy on the books since the '90s.” 

Steve let out a relieved little breath as subtly as possible, but knew it wouldn't escape her attention. She poured them both tea. (Such beautiful hands . . . Maybe she'd let me sketch them sometime?)

Steve gave her a grateful smile; she just inclined her head slightly in return. They drank their tea without another word for a few minutes; Natasha was patient, but he wasn't quite ready to say more. Natasha slid off the bar stool with preternatural grace. 

“Spar with me?” 

Steve gave her a grateful smile and finished the last of his tea. 

“Gladly.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your encouragement means the world to me. Thank you for reading this!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for sticking with me! You guys are awesome!

_November 8, 2012_

“How's Tony?” Bruce asked without looking up from the cutting board. Steve sighed. 

“It doesn't look like things are going well down there.” Steve helped himself to a glass of orange juice and peered over at Bruce's creation. Something with lentils and chickpeas. “He told me to 'fuck the fuck off' and let him work.”

Bruce grimaced. “That bad, huh?”

“Yeah. I don't think Rhodey's been this seriously hurt since Tony gave him War Machine. I think it gave Tony a pretty bad scare.”

Bruce nodded, reaching for another unlabeled jar of red-orange spices. The whole kitchen smelled like-- well, Steve didn't really know what it smelled like. Curry of some sort. A year ago he'd have thought it smelled “foreign,” now it just smelled like “Bruce” and “home” or possibly “Thursdays.”

Steve shrugged. “At least it looks like he's eating and drinking. Er, just water and coffee. So that's good.”

Bruce nodded again. “Still, it's never fun to see him like this.” He stirred the pot serenely. “I'm glad I've left the obsessed, workaholic, self-destructive phase of my career long behind me.” 

Steve choked on his juice. 

Bruce looked over with raised eyebrows. “You okay?”

“Fine!” Steve gasped. (Absolutely _do not_ mention his 72 hour foodless lab binge last week...)

“Anyway,” Bruce continued, “self-destructive or not, it's never pleasant to be on the outside watching other people in their zone. People used to joke about all the sorrowing lab widows.” 

Steve wrinkled his nose and tried to suppress a grimace. Okay, maybe lately Steve had felt at loose ends and a little lonely without his fella, and maybe Steve did like to cook and keep things tidy and be, uh, _domestic_ , and maybeClint said he was a bit of a nag and a mother hen, and okay fine, so he-- (wants to get fucked long and hard...)-- none of that, it didn't . . . didn't make him a woman. Er, widow. Not that those things are _actually_ woman things-- or being a woman's bad or anything! (Oh geeze.) Steve shook his head and tried not to sigh. 

Bruce had rambled on without realizing he'd lost Steve's attention.

“-- many a break-up,” he concluded with a shrug. Steve was tempted to ask Bruce to repeat himself, but a combination of embarrassment and the desire _not_ to hear about break-ups kept him quiet. “Mm,” he uttered, with a nod. 

“But you've been keeping busy, haven't you?” Bruce asked. He checked on something in the oven and put a lid on his curry, turning down the heat. “I saw that another order of art supplies came in for you.” 

“Yeah. I, uh--” Steve began. (Maybe now's the time...) “And I've been thinking about doing something a little more . . . structured.”

Bruce looked at him expectantly then waved for him to go on.

“Well, I was talking with Natasha yesterday about my status. She said I was effectively discharged after the crash. So I think that means I'd still be eligible for the benefits from the GI Bill, right?” Bruce blinked-- he looked a little surprised but he nodded and Steve charged on. “So, I'd have a scholarship. I could apply to City College and get more of a formal education. I started looking at it on the internet. I did manage to finish high school, though I don't see how I could get copies of my high school transcripts or diploma-- not that they'd do me much good-- but I thought maybe Natasha would be able to help me come up with something. And apparently there are these tests I'd have to take, but I could start studying for those now so I could probably do okay on those.” 

Bruce was nodding and giving Steve that gentle little smile-- the one that he sometimes worried meant that Bruce was humoring him. 

“The SATs,” Bruce said. “Did you find the study guides online?”

“Yeah. I glanced at them.” 

Bruce hesitated. “If there's anything I can do to help . . .”

“No! I, um, I'll be fine, I'm sure,” Steve said hastily. (Oh God, so embarrassing. This stuff is probably what Bruce and Tony did for fun as toddlers...) He swallowed. (Don't be proud, Rogers. He's being nice.) “But, well, if I run into trouble, I'll let you know.” 

Steve was embarrassed to realize his palms were sweating. 

Bruce smiled, wider this time. “I think it's a great plan, Steve. Any idea what you'll study?”

“Definitely American history. I've done a bunch of reading on my own, but it would be good to actually study it formally. Maybe art and literature too? I've always liked poetry, well, some of it.” Steve hesitated a moment. “And, it might be nice to do some basic stuff with science and computers-- not that I expect I'll have much of a nack for it, and, I know that we've got that stuff well covered on the team. I just thought it would be nice to understand it a little better.”

“That sounds fantastic, Steve. I'm sure you'll do great!”

Steve felt a warm sense of relief to have Bruce's support, could breathe a little easier now that he'd shared his plan. He'd half expected Bruce-- (well, not _Bruce_ , but someone)-- to laugh in his face, remind him they'd wanted to make him _strong_ not _smart_ , and what the hell was he going to _do_ with a university degree. But Bruce didn't think it was silly. Bruce thought it was a good idea. He'd go talk to Natasha about sorting out some sort of cover identity and then talk to Tony about-- 

(Shit.)

“Hey, Bruce?”

“Yeah?”

“I was wondering--” Steve bit his lip, “-- would you mind not telling anybody about it yet? Especially Tony? I'll tell him myself, but I think I might wait and see how things are going. Just, 'cause, you know . . .” Steve flapped his hand awkwardly, “. . . he's so good at this stuff.”

Bruce grinned. “And modest and tactful?”

Steve snorted. “Yeah, something like that.” 

“I won't say a word until you say so.”

Steve smiled. “Thanks.” 

(Not that Tony'd be cruel, just-- geeze, he can be so intimidating sometimes!)

“No worries.” The timer went off and Bruce bustled over to the oven. “And, if you want some, curry will be done in another hour.” 

“Great! And thanks again for keeping my little secret.” 

Steve hurried from the kitchen, eager to find Natasha, and collided with--

“Ms. Potts! I'm so sorry!” Steve exclaimed, grabbing her elbow when she stumbled. Pepper's expression was pinched and somehow colder than usual. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” she pulled away with a little more force than necessary, then gave him a little smile. “I'm fine.” 

They stared at each other. The silence stretched on for a few long moments while Steve fumbled for something to say, trying not to be unnerved by her expression.

“Did you see Tony?” Steve asked. 

“Briefly,” she said. “He's in bad shape.” 

It sounded almost like an accusation and Steve tried not to bristle. “I've made sure he's not skipping meals,” he said, then hated that he was explaining himself to her. ( _You_ left. You _left!_ You don't get to judge.) “He's having a hard time since Rhodey got hurt so bad.”

“Yes, I realize that.” They stood awkwardly for a moment before Ms. Potts said, “I was looking for Bruce?”

Steve seized on it eagerly: “Oh, yes, of course! He's in the kitchen.”

“Thank you.” She stepped wide around him, as though his clumsiness were so overwhelming he might bump into her again while standing still. “Well. Have a good day.” 

“Thanks. You too.”

Steve was frowning as he went off to find Natasha. 

&&&&&

JARVIS had informed Steve that Natasha was at SHIELD, but would alert him when she returned. So, instead of continuing his plots with her, Steve read up on City College's programs and browsed the course catalogue. Oh brother! He wanted to take everything. 

When he finally looked up the hour had flown by and the curry had already been done for twenty minutes. Oops. Well, Bruce would have called before waiting dinner, so it was probably fine. 

Steve closed down his computer and headed up to the kitchen.

Pepper's voice was animated and carried well down the hallway as he approached: “-- bad feeling about it. I mean, he's _Captain America_! It just can't be good for Tony!”

Steve froze. 

Bruce replied softly, but with Steve's enhanced hearing it was still audible: “What do you mean?” 

Pepper answered, tone flustered, almost outraged: “Just there's something weird about it! I mean, he was friends with Tony's _father_ , and Howard spent all his time out on that boat looking for the Captain when he should have been spending time with Tony.” 

Steve's heart was pounding. No matter how loudly his mind screamed at him about eavesdropping he couldn't quite force himself to move forward or back. He bit his cheek and focused on breathing quietly in and out. 

Pepper continued unaware, talking loud and fast, words still pouring out.

“And that insane memorabilia collection of Howard’s? Tony had me get ready to sell the whole thing at Christie’s— _three times_ —then phoned me in a panic at the last minute to call off the sale. And the way he used to talk about the Captain, when they first met—the guy sounded like a nightmare. I know Tony’s difficult, but that’s no excuse! Meeting him was hard on Tony. When Tony was a kid, it’s like he loved Captain America, and hated Captain America, and Captain America was the ultimate ideal Tony could never live up to. And now he’s _dating_ him!? How the hell can that be healthy?”

Something slammed down on the table-- it sounded like a shot.

“Pepper,” Bruce answered softly, “Tony's not dating Captain America. He’s dating Steve.” 

(I love Bruce!) Steve nearly sagged with relief.

“And, sure,” Bruce said, “they had a rough start, but that was a long time ago. It’s in the past.” 

“Is it really?” Pepper asked, her voice tense and worried. “God! I just want to shake that man and tell him I don’t fucking care if he’s Captain America-- if he does anything that hurts Tony they’ll never find his body!” 

Steve barely suppressed a gasp of indignation-- (You-- you-- How? You--!)-- until Pepper continued with a loud sigh, “But that would be a bit rich coming from _me_.” 

A wine bottle clanked loudly against the rim of a glass. Her tone was sad when she continued, “So. I—it just gives me a bad feeling, Bruce. I can't shake the sense that this will end in heartbreak.” There was a pause and Steve could hear utensils against china-- Bruce serving seconds? 

(I should go. Oh God, I really should go.)

“Pep--” Bruce began at the same moment Pepper resumed.

“Especially,” her voice had lost its melancholy and she sounded vexed again, “ _especially_ ,if he's going to try and keep Tony in the closet, which will never work long-term! When I got Tony's text asking me to keep everything between them on the 'dl,' I wanted to march right over here and-- I don't even know!”

“Pepper,” Bruce cut in more firmly, “I honestly think--” 

But Steve didn't, _couldn't_ stay to hear any more. Bad enough he'd eavesdropped on Ms Potts, but he wouldn't do that to Bruce, his friend and his teammate. 

Flustered, outraged, and ashamed, Steve fled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving! :-)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is almost done! One more chapter. Maybe two. Done soon though! Yay! :-) And man, I can't thank you guys enough for sticking with me. I hope you like this chapter! *looks nervous*

“Uh, if you're in the middle of a psychotic break, I can come back later.”

Steve whirled around, panting. Clint was leaning against the doorway to the gym wearing his weird purple workout gear. Steve swallowed.

“No, it's fine.”

“You sure? 'cause you look seriously ready to rip somebody's limbs off. I mean, more so than usual when you're going at that thing.”

Steve shook his head and turned back to his specially reinforced punching bag, the one Tony'd made him. He hadn't managed to destroy it yet, but that wasn't for lack of trying. He'd been pounding it for at least forty-five minutes-- ever since he'd overheard Ms. Potts. 

(Okay, fine, eavesdropped on. It had been overhearing at first, but around the sixty second mark, let's face it, you're not _overhearing_ anymore.) 

“Uh-huh, man,” Clint said, approaching the bag next to him. “Just checking. I really don't wanna end up as collateral damage.”

Steve shrugged at Clint, then took a deep breath and threw a sharp punch. The bag shook on its chain, but for the thousandth time didn't break.

It was true what they said: “eavesdroppers seldom hear anything good of themselves.” He wanted to go yell at Pepper Potts that he was a hell of a lot better for Tony than she'd been in the end, but he knew that wasn't really fair and, besides, he wasn't supposed to know that she felt that way. She certainly wouldn't have told him. 

Steve let out a long shuddering sigh and crossed the gym for his water bottle.

Pepper was flat out wrong about them. He loved Tony and Tony loved him. He'd first started falling in love with Tony exactly because Tony saw him as Steve, just Steve, not Captain America from the newsreels and the comics. Tony understood him. Tony let him be shy and awkward and afraid and disoriented. Tony loved Steve's eyes best of all.

Steve drained the entire bottle of water, refilled it at the fountain, and started back towards the unbreakable bag. He sometimes felt like Sisyphus with that thing. (Ugh.) It was great to have a bag he couldn't destroy, but it was maddening too. (Especially today.) He changed his mind halfway across the gym and sat down on the bench. 

Seriously, she was wrong. Truly wrong. He and Tony had even talked about Howard once, early in their friendship. Tony'd been drunk and started ranting about Steve's "old buddy, Howard"; Steve had confessed that he hadn't really know Howard very well and, though he'd seemed like a swell guy back then, Steve had barely spent any time with him. He hadn't known Howard half, a third, a tenth as well as he knew Tony now. Tony'd started laughing hysterically, muttering “that fucking poser” over and over, then he'd fallen asleep and drooled on Steve's shoulder. So, it was fine. Really. But there was one thing . . . she was right about one thing. 

Steve forced himself to unwind his wraps, slowly, methodically-- trying to let the familiar motions soothe him. He took a deep breath. The sound of Clint's punches resounded through the gym.

Steve's stomach churned with dread. The guilt he'd felt over the past six days was no longer simmering-- it had positively boiled over. 

“ _. . . if he's going to try and keep Tony in the closet . . .”_

Steve knew he couldn't keep their relationship a secret, especially not as celebrities in this brave new world, but beyond that he didn't even want to. He wanted to hold Tony's hand on top of the table at Piaci. He wanted to put his arm around Tony's shoulder when they walked. He wanted to kiss Tony in Central Park. He wanted to spend the next miserable gala on Tony's arm. He didn't want to hide what he had with Tony. 

“Hey, man, are you okay?” 

Steve startled. Clint was hovering, his face twisted with concern.

Steve nodded. 

(I don't want to hide, and I won't.)

“Yeah,” Steve said. “I'm okay.” 

(Everything's gonna be okay.)

&&&&&&&

Tony reached for his coffee with fumbling hands; it crashed to the floor and the mug shattered. He jumped at the loud noise, heart racing. Dummy beeped sadly and swiveled around his stool, wheels crunching over the broken pottery.

“Shut up,” Tony muttered. He was surrounded by dozens upon dozens of schematics, their glow faint. “Shut up. 'm thinking.”

(Maybe . . . maybe . . . get, get him-- IT-- to hypersonic flow, then shield for the . . . the shock wave. And temperature spike. Shit. Wait. No.)

Oh fuck, his eyes were burning, even with the schematics dimmed low. 

“JARVIS, gimmie chart 7112.”

“Of course, sir.”

(Duh! Because it's an external arc reactor! Introduce a secondary core! Paladium or metanoym alloy that can double shielding output and absorb-- shit. No, wait, no. Temperature spike, toxic discharge. Shit. Did this. Did this already. Fuck.)

“Scrap that, J. Send the chart to the back. Give me . . .” (Fuck.) “Give me 7344. Yeah. And run a double check on my calculations on, uh, on 7217.”

“Sir, I have already done so.”

“Well do it again!” Tony snapped.

Oh fuck his eyes hurt. Where were the fucking eyedrops? 

“And give me a spotlight on the eyedrops.”

“Sir? Might I suggest--”

“No. Whatever it is, no.”

“--that rest would be a far superior restorative for your current eyestrain.” 

“No. Dummy, what are you doing there?” (Oh. Right. Coffee.) “Well, make yourself useful. Find the--” Tony's vision swam. (Huh.) “-- the . . . the--”

“Sir, the eyedrops you requested are immediately to your right.” 

(Right in front of me. Okaaay.) 

He tipped his head back and forced his eyes open, one then the other. The eyedrops were cold. (Ugh. Hate doing that.)

“Results, J?”

“My calculations confirm your own, sir.”

“Okay. Shit.”

Tony reached for his coffee. (Wait, where--? Oh. Right. Floor.)

“And turn up the heat, JARVIS. It's freezing down here.”

“It is currently seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit in your workshop, sir.”

“Whatever. Crank it up, okay?”

“Yes, sir.” 

“And cross the specs on 7127's reserve core with 7344's cooling system. Give it to me in graph form to my left. I'm going to look at the variable alloy list again, see if I missed something.”

“Very good, sir. Calculating.”

Tony's hand waved through thin air. 

“Where the fuck's my coffee?”

*************************************

“ _Tony?”_

(. . . controlled defensive vortex . . .  under, wait, no . Shit. Maybe. Shit.)

“ _Tony._ ”

(But if I adjust it, maybe . . . )

“Tony.”

“Fuck!” Tony jumped and flailed. “What the fucking fuck, Steve!?”

“I didn't mean to startle you,” Steve said, taking an exaggerated step back and holding his hands up in half-joking surrender.

“Yeah? Well, you did," Tony grumbled. "And I lost my train of thought.” Tony turned back to the soft-glowing screens and added, not looking, “So, food, coffee, whatever, thanks, but just leave it on the table and let me work. I told you to stay out of the workshop, okay? I'm busy.”

“No,” Steve said, voice firm. “Not okay.”

“Excuse me?” Tony said indignantly, spinning around. “What?”

“I said it's not okay.” Steve had that mulish look on his face, pinched at the corner of his mouth. 

“You've gotta be fucking kidding me with this shit,” Tony said angrily. “Seriously, Steve? Get out.”

“No,” Steve repeated. (Uh-oh. Cap's digging his heels in all right.) “Tony, it's been a _week_.”

“I'm eating!” (Did I really just say that? Ew.) “I'm fine. I'm _working_. So, butt out.”

“Tony, you've been down here for a week,” Steve said, expression softening, voice coaxing. “You need to--”

“No,” Tony cut in. “Damn it, no. No! This is me. This is what you get.”

Steve just frowned at him. A chorus of past lovers were buzzing in Tony's head: “Don't stay in the workshop so long, Tony.”; “You never have time for me, Tony.”; “I'm not a priority for you, Tony.”; “There's no room in your life for me, Tony.” It was hard to breathe. (Stupid, stupid, stupid.) And he couldn't hold it in, it was all so fucking unfair. It wasn't good enough. Nothing was good enough. It made him so fucking angry. And in the far corner of the workshop, the mangled War Machine armor, silent and reproachful, watched everything with empty eyes. Tony felt like a wire ready to snap, an overheated engine ready to blow, his whole body hot and throbbing with the anger and frustration and-- 

“This is me!” Tony yelled. His hands cut through the air in sharp angry gestures; it felt like throwing a punch. “This is what I do and if you don't like it, fuck you! Fuck you, Steve! Just fuck the fuck off, _okay_? Get the fuck out. Just get the fuck out.”

Steve's eyes narrowed and the pinch at his mouth was back. “You can't scare me off by swearing at me, Tony.” 

Tony's fingernails bit into his palms; he was panting. 

Steve took a deep breath and looked around the workshop, then back to Tony. He took a cautious step forward, very slowly, and said, “I know you, Tony. Really I do, but _this_? This isn't fine. It just isn't, okay?”

Tony shook his head angrily; it made him feel dizzy. 

Steve was still talking, voice gentle and Tony really wanted to be angry about that, but his head was spinning a little and it made it hard to focus. “This is different. Can't you see that? I didn't give you a hard time when you had to fix those phones for Stark Industries, did I? But look at this, Tony.” Steve waved his hand around the workshop. Tony blinked. His vision swam for a moment.

“It's been a week. You haven't been sleeping,” Steve continued. “You've got nearly, Jesus I dunno, a hundred? A hundred screens up all at once! This isn't normal; it isn't working. Please? Get some rest and then come back to it. It'll help.” 

(Shit, shit, shit.) Tony's heart was pounding and everything felt too loud, too bright.

“I can't,” Tony said and, oh God, his voice cracked. The anger had gone somehow and all that was left was a deep seated exhaustion; suddenly he was folded up in Steve's massive arms, held against his chest. 

“Yes, you can.”

Tony shuddered.

“Hey, it's okay,” Steve murmured. “Rhodey won't be flying War Machine for weeks. You have time. Rest, come back fresh. It'll be better. But--” Tony could practically feel Steve hesitating, like his reluctance was a physical force, heavy and bludgeoning, a powerful contrast to Steve's soft fingers lightly caressing his hair. “There are some things engineering genius can't solve. Injuries happen. It's not your fault. You know that, right? And no amount of genius can keep a man in combat 100% safe. It just-- it can't be done, no matter how brilliant you are.”

(Oh fuck.) Tony let out a helpless little noise against Steve's chest. (Shit. Don't say it. Not out loud. Don't--)

“Come on, sweetheart,” Steve said, pulling Tony off his stool. He pressed a kiss to Tony's forehead. “You look like shit and smell worse. Let's go, yeah?”

Tony glanced around, eyes aching. There was the mug he'd broken earlier and, oh actually, it looked like there was another one too. And a smashed plate. The drafts, every single one he'd worked on, were scattered all around the workshop, hanging still and silent. 

It was a mess. 

Tony opened his mouth, closed it again. There was a lump in his throat. 

“Saving your work and shutting down the workshop now, sir,” JARVIS said smoothly. Tony just nodded. (Shit. Have to apologize to JARVIS later. And--)

Steve herded Tony into the elevator, half supporting him.

(Oh God.)

It was hard to swallow. His throat was agonizingly dry.

“Steve--” Tony's voice sounded wrecked. (Oh fuck. Fuck.) “I--” Steve looked down at him, expression soft, but there was something sad lingering there at the edges of his gentleness. “About earlier--”

“It's okay,” Steve murmured. 

“No,” Tony shook his head. It hurt. “It's not. I--” he swallowed. “I'm sorry.” 

“It's okay.” Steve smiled, just a little.

“No.” Tony shook his head stubbornly. (Ouch.) “I shouldn't have-- I . . . I didn't mean it.”

“I know.” Steve caressed his hair and kissed him on the forehead again. “I know that. It's okay.”

Everything hurt. There was a vice around Tony's chest, an ache right behind the arc reactor, and his eyes stung and watered leaving his cheeks wet. 

“It's okay, sweetheart.” Steve whispered, holding him close. “I've got you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah. That happened. Uh... Hope you like it! (kinda hurt to write, honestly...)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I'm honored that you've stuck with me!


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long delay and the short chapter! I really wanted to post this scene together with the next one, but the second scene is giving me lots of trouble and I didn't want to delay this part any longer. Thank you for your patience and constant support! You are wonderful!

Steve herded Tony easily from the elevator and down the hall to his bedroom. Tony shuffled along heavily, half-clinging to Steve's side, making no protest at his lover's firm grip around his waist. Steve wondered if Tony might fall without him. 

(I'd carry you, if I thought you'd let me.)

Tony seemed half-asleep already. Steve loved it when Tony was boneless and spent with pleasure, sprawling luxuriously in bed, but this deep exhaustion was a sad shadow of that happy fatigue. Tony turned towards the bed, but Steve led him to the bathroom instead and started to run the tub. 

“Come on. You'll feel better after a bath,” he said, stripping Tony of his t-shirt. Tony was giving him this strange little look, brow slightly creased, eyes wide and tired. (Bloodshot. And tear tracks down his cheeks. Oh, Tony.) 

Steve leaned forward to kiss Tony's brow, then his cheeks; he placed a soft little kiss at the corner of his mouth, then on his lips. He stroked Tony's shoulders, his back, then reached down to undo Tony's trousers. The tub was almost full. 

“Uh, Steve,” Tony said hesitantly, frowning. “I don't think I can--” He made a vague little gesture.

(Huh?) 

Steve cocked his head and waited patiently for Tony to gather his thoughts.

“I mean,” Tony began again, still frowning, “I'm not really _in the mood_ for, uh--”

“Oh!” (Shit.) Steve shook his head. “I'm not-- I didn't expect--”

(Sheesh. Come on, sentences, Rogers.)

“I just want to take care of you, Tony,” Steve said. “It's just a bath.”

“Oh, right,” Tony said with a grimace, looking a little embarrassed. “I just didn't want you to be disappointed, if I couldn't, um--” He glanced down.

(Oh! Geeze. Damn serum. They didn't say it would give a man wood at the first hint of a breeze.)

“Sorry,” Steve mumbled.

“No! It's fine, babe. I mean, I'm flattered, only I'm too--” Tony closed his eyes and let out a little groan. “You know what? I'm gonna shut up now.”

Steve smiled. He finished stripping his lover, and helped him into the tub. Steve hesitated for a moment, before shucking his own clothes and climbing in beside Tony, who was already fumbling around for the soap. Steve laid a light hand on Tony's shoulder. “Would you let me--?” Steve reached out for the soap.

“Uh, sure. All right.”

And maybe it was silly to feel such a thrill at that, at being allowed to do this small thing for his lover, but as Steve worked the soap to a rich lather on his hands and ran them across Tony's shoulders, he felt an aching warmth in the pit of his stomach, radiating out with satisfaction. 

But as he tried to massage the tension from Tony's shoulders, they seemed to become more stiff. Tony hunched in on himself, half-ducking from under Steve's hands.

“Steve?” he said, voice pained. “I really am sorry.” 

“It's okay.” (Everything's okay.)

“I-- I shouldn't have yelled.”

“That? You've always had a sharp tongue. Didn't figure that'd change.” Steve shrugged and the water sloshed in the tub. He gave Tony a gentle shove and asked, with a hint of playfulness in his voice, turning up his Brooklyn lilt, “An' whad is this? You think I can't take some damn cussin', Stark? Fuck you. I'm from fuckin' Brooklyn, ya fuckin' asshole.”

Tony laughed and there was maybe something nervous around the edges, but he relaxed back into Steve's arms. “Always with Brooklyn, huh babe?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Steve hummed, nuzzling Tony's neck and lathering the soap again. 

Tony let out a long sigh and sagged a little more. 

“Let me do this for you, sweetheart,” Steve murmured into Tony's ear. “Please?”

“Mmmm,” Tony muttered with a nod, relaxing a little more, and Steve felt a wave of pleasure, something at once tender and possessive. They'd never actually had a bath together. Shower, yes-- they'd kissed against the tiled wall, pulling each other's cocks roughly until they came, panting, and let the hot water wash the mess down the drain-- but this . . . This was different. 

Steve reveled in it, the strange privilege of seeing and touching Tony in this state, lax, trusting, half-asleep. Steve liked the thick lather of the soap, rich and creamy, with its gentle scent of sandalwood and something spicy he could only think of as 'Tony scent.' There was something satisfying about how grimy Tony was, the oil and grease streaking unexpected patches of sweaty skin, as if the pain of the last week had left these visible marks on Tony's body and Steve could undo that pain with a loving touch. It wasn't that simple, but if felt good all the same, like something pure and clean. (There's nothing wrong with us. This is love.) 

There was grease behind Tony's left ear. Steve washed it and pressed a little kiss to the spot. He ran soapy hands across Tony's shoulders, arms, back, chest. (Under water, the arc reactor is even more otherwordly, glowing blue-green and beautiful. It's nothing like seeing it when they swim, getting a fleeting glimpse, trying not to look too closely...) Done with Tony's upper body, Steve shifted to the other end of the tub to wash and massage Tony's feet, right then left, and to caress and wash Tony's lightly furred legs. 

Tony's head was tipped back against the edge of the tub, eyes shut and an inch away from sleep. Steve realized a little guiltily that he could happily keep caressing and bathing Tony until their fingers got pruney, but it would be terribly selfish of him to linger. Steve finished bathing Tony's lower half, keeping the touches to his genitals as gently non-sexual as he could, and then scooted up to take Tony in his arms, back to chest. 

Steve ran the tap, checking the temperature, and grabbed the cup on the sidebar. 

“Tony?” he murmured. Tony's eyes fluttered open and he gave Steve an exhausted half-smile. There was a week's stubble-- almost a beard-- growing in the gaps of Tony's van dyke. But that could wait. 

“Tilt your head back?” Steve asked gently. “I want to wash your hair.” Tony looked away and tensed; he opened his mouth, then closed it again. “Don't worry,” Steve said, trying to keep his tone light. “I won't get soap in your eyes. Or water on your face. Just tip your head back, ok?”

Steve was grateful when Tony nodded and relaxed just a little. Tony had never said anything about it, not directly, but Steve had noticed that in the pool, Tony never went under, never put his head in the water. In the shower, he kept his face out of the spray; he used a washcloth at the sink when he shaved.

Steve put his left hand across Tony's forehead to keep any stray drops from Tony's face as he carefully, so carefully, wet Tony's hair. Little by little, Tony relaxed again as, true to his word, Steve didn't let Tony's face get wet. Steve massaged Tony's scalp with his fingertips, working the shampoo to a foamy lather. Tony let out a loud groan. He sighed and went limp. Steve smiled. Steve tipped Tony's head back again, and carefully, carefully rinsed Tony's hair, making sure he'd gotten all the soap out of it, caressing the silky strands. 

“I like this,” Steve told Tony softly. “I like doing things for you.”

Tony turned to him with tired eyes and a hesitant (or sad?) little smile. Tony took a breath, as if to say something, then just sighed. He reached up to caress Steve's cheek lightly with his knuckles, but it looked slow and clumsy, as if just lifting his arm required all his strength. (Tony needs rest! Get moving, Rogers.)

“It's late. Let's get to bed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading and for all your kind support! “Merry Christmas!” (in Steve voice), “Happy Holidays!” (in Bruce voice), and “Wait, what? No, wait, it's December what? So? Oh. Right. *that*” (in Tony voice). 
> 
> Speaking of the holidays, fandom, and our favorite boys..... uh, well, if you maybe have a few dollars left to spare, why not consider making a little donation to charity in Steve and Tony's honor? I'm making my own (very modest, I'm afraid...) holiday donations to the LGBT Help Center where my friend volunteers doing peer-support chats. (http://www.glnh.org/) In my head canon for the Surrender Universe, Steve turned to the Help Center for free, confidential counseling while he was struggling with his identity as a gay man and a submissive; they helped him work through his feelings for Tony and decide to come out to his team. Yay Help Center! 
> 
> Thank you all so much for the happiness this story has brought me! I honestly would have quit writing it if it weren't for your continued interest and support, and I'm very grateful that you've encouraged me to keep going. It has been a really wonderful thing in my life and that is your doing. 
> 
> Happy holidays and a joyful new year! (Though, I do hope to have chapter 21 up before 2014 hits... wish me luck! :-)


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